


Democracy in Amestris

by Griselda_Gimpel



Series: Rebuilding Ishval [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Comedy, Elections, F/M, Gen, Het, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Genocide, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), M/M, Nazis by Another Name, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Post-Promised Day, Slash, Terrorism, Tragedy/Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Gimpel/pseuds/Griselda_Gimpel
Summary: Amestris is having democratic elections in the first time since forever, so it's Roy Mustang vs. Olivier Armstrong vs. Scar's Master vs. Former Presidential Aide Storch. Features four candidates, three presidential debates, two weddings, and a funeral!





	1. Democracy

**Author's Note:**

> In this chapter, I wanted to both set up the plot and start dealing with the fallout from the previous fanfic in the series: The Trial of the Flame Alchemist. Also, the stuff with Marcoh happened in The 144 Patients of Dr. Marcoh. I try to recap long-lasting details from previous fanfics so that each entry in the story can be at least somewhat standalone. I hope you enjoy!

                Ten months after Brigadier General Roy Mustang was tried and found guilty of murder – and ten months minus three days after Führer President Grumman pardoned Mustang for any and all crimes he had committed in Ishval – Colonel Miles found himself once again reporting the status of the Ishvalan Reconstruction Project to his superior. Or he would have been, anyway, except that Mustang was on the phone.

                “Uh huh,” Mustang was saying. “Yes, yes, but- No, listen. Okay, okay, have a good day, Your Excellency.” Mustang hung up the phone. Miles, however, was slow to give his report. While on the phone, Mustang had been fiddling with something, and Miles realized with horror that it was the Philosopher’s Stone Dr. Marcoh had given him in exchange for him championing the Ishvalan Reconstruction Project. Mustang saw where Miles’ eyes were looking. “It’s nearly used up now,” Mustang said. “There wasn’t much in it when I got it, and healing Havoc and myself was nearly all that it could do. I suppose this will be going in those careful, detailed notes you take?”

                “Yes, sir,” Miles said. He wanted to add _But you have no fear of prosecution, do you, sir?_ but he didn’t. Major General Armstrong had trained him better than that. Miles didn’t doubt that Mustang could tell that Miles did not regard him with the same fondness that Mustang’s other subordinates did, but things had become especially frosty between them after Miles had testified against Mustang during Mustang’s trial. Riza Hawkeye had also testified against Mustang, but Mustang didn’t treat her with the same coolness he now showed Miles. (Not, Miles reflected, that he wanted Mustang to treat him the way Mustang treated Hawkeye. Miles had Scar to treat him that way.)

                “How is the construction of Logue Lowe City coming?” Mustang asked. The first rebuilt city in Ishval had been named New Ishval, and as time had passed, other cities had followed. New Ishval was where Miles, Scar, their adopted daughter Adva, and a whole mess of cats lived.

                “The sewer system and power grid are both in place,” Miles reported. “Construction on civic buildings will begin tomorrow.”

                The phone on Mustang’s desk rang again. He held up a finger for Miles to wait a moment and answered it. “No, no, no,” Mustang said. “We can’t just have one. Look, if His Excellency won’t listen to me, have my lieutenant talk to him. Yes, I am playing the Granddaughter Card. Yes, I really do mean it.”

                While Mustang talked, Miles reflected on the situation that they’d ended up with. When the smoke cleared on the Day of Reckoning, Miles had hoped that his Queen would have prevailed. It would have been better that way. Oh, it would have been bloodier, of course. With Major General Armstrong as the Führer President, there would have been trials and executions. He knew that Amestris would have resented her rule, but she would have brought the country to heel, the way she did every soldier who came to Briggs. Even when Briggs had gotten a soldier who’d been in Ishval – which happened occasionally – Major General Armstrong had been able to make something of them, given enough time. Look at Vato Falman. Given a chance to return to Mustang’s command, he had voluntarily chosen to stay at Briggs.

                Mustang slammed the phone down rather harder than necessary. He put his Philosopher’s Stone away in his pocket. “Does Ishval have all the supplies it needs?” he asked. “Despite what my critics may think, my desire to rebuild Ishval and make amends is genuine.” His tone contained just the slightest whiff of petulance.

                “We need-” Miles began before the phone rang again.

                “Yes, everybody,” Mustang was saying on the phone. “Yes, even the Ishvalans. Yes, the Cretans, too. Well, Your Excellency, if we signed a peace treaty with Aerugo like I advised, that wouldn’t be an issue. Yes, I realize that the Bouncing Hills have strategic value. Yes, sir. Yes, I’ll give Riza your love. Have a good day, sir.”

                While Mustang spoke, Miles reflected on the conversation he’d had with Dr. Marcoh seven months prior. He’d visited Marcoh in his prison cell during visitation hours, where Marcoh was serving out a life sentence. Unlike Mustang, Marcoh didn’t have any friends in Central to protect and pardon him. Not, Miles reflected, that it would have mattered. Marcoh didn’t seem to care that he was locked up at night provided he was still able to work as a doctor at the New Light Memorial Hospital during the day.

                _Colonel!_ Marcoh had signed when Miles had entered. A couple of years prior, Marcoh and his team had done amazing work restoring the surviving members of the Immortal Legion, but the alchemic ritual Marcoh had used to gain the necessary knowledge had cost him his tongue. He communicated either by writing or sign language these days, the latter never quite perfect due to the scarring on his face, which hampered his ability to make nuanced facial expressions. Nevertheless, his signs were smooth after so much practice.

                “Good evening,” Miles  said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

                Marcoh touched his left fingers against his right palm and then separated both hands, spraying out the fingers of his left hand. _What about?_

                “Do you ever regret giving Mustang a Philosopher’s Stone?” Miles asked evenly.

                Marcoh dropped his gaze and hesitated before signing his answer _. I didn’t know then that the souls in a Philosopher’s Stone could be restored. But Mustang had won. He had need of the Stone, and I wanted the Ishvalans to have their home again._ He hesitated and then tapped the index finger and middle finger of his right hand against his left palm. Miles saw that Marcoh had cocked his head to the side and realized that Marcoh meant it as a question, not a statement.

                “I don’t know if it was the right decision,” Miles said, answering the question. “But it’s like Master Isaiah says. Ishvala judges us on doing the best we can with the situation at hand.” He saw Marcoh flinch a little at “Ishvala judges”, but he didn’t sign anything. “Well, I need to be going,” Miles said.

                _Thank you very much for visiting_ , Marcoh signed, and Miles had left.

                Back in Roy Mustang’s office, Miles mentally reminded himself that for all the atrocities Mustang had committed in the past, he had also kept his word to Marcoh and championed the rebuilding of Ishval. He waited for Mustang to put down the phone and then spoke again. “We need more wood,” he got out before the phone rang for a fourth time.

                “Hello again, Your Excellency,” Mustang said. “Good, good. So I can tell him? Thank you, sir. This means a lot of me. And to Riza. Have a good day, sir.”

                “But otherwise, we’re good on supplies, sir,” Miles said, getting it out in a rush before the phone could ring again.

                Mustang smiled at him. It was the sly smile of a little boy who knows a secret, and Miles struggled to keep his expression neutral. It was the first time Miles had ever seen Mustang smile at him, and it was more discomforting than reassuring.

                “What is it, sir?” Miles had.

                “We shouldn’t need to worry about any more protests in Ishval,” Mustang said happily, and Miles froze. No one in Ishval had ever been very happy with Mustang being in charge of the Ishvalan Reconstruction Project (even if Mustang stayed out of Ishval itself) but the feelings of ill will had intensified after Mustang’s conviction and then pardon. There had been protests, and although they hadn’t gotten out of hand, they made Miles uncomfortable. He knew all too well how the Amestrian government reacted to even the slightest hint of dissent. Miles eyes glanced down at Mustang’s gloved hands before quickly going back to Mustang’s face. Scar had said that on the Day of Reckoning, Mustang had snapped his fingers and turned two dozen immortal soldiers to dust. Although it hadn’t been known at the time, there were 144 souls in each immortal soldier. Miles did the math in his head quickly. 3,456 Ishvalans with no control over their actions had been incinerated in an instant by Mustang on the Day of Reckoning. It had been self-defense, to be sure, but it had been lethal nonetheless. It would be no trouble at all for Mustang to put down the protests against him. He could do it with the snap of his fingers.

                “Yes, sir?” Miles asked, doing his best to keep the fear out of his voice.

                “Grumman’s going to retire,” Mustang announced cheerfully. “The position of Führer is being obsoleted, and there’s going to be democratic elections for the presidency!”


	2. Four Candidates

                Miles was positively giddy as he drew near his home with Scar. He paused at the moat that surrounded their house. It was a twenty foot sheer drop, although it seemed deeper; after they had adopted Adva, Scar had added a five foot tall fence on both sides of the moat. There was no water at the bottom, but it worked to deter paparazzi. Miles drew the necessary alchemic symbol on the ground in the dirt, and the bridge rose to allow Miles to cross. Miles was by no means an alchemist, but a borrowed book from the Armstrong library had taught him and Adva enough to allow them to raise and lower the bridge as they needed.

                “Welcome home,” Scar said, greeting him with a kiss as Adva hugged him around his waist. One of the cats rubbed herself on Miles’ leg as a way of greeting. “You’re in a better mood than you usually are after meeting with Mustang. Did he drop de-” Scar paused and glanced down at Adva before finishing his sentence carefully. “-ntal implants?”

                Adva giggled. “Why would he drop dental implants, Alchemist Daddy?” To Adva, Scar was ‘Alchemist Daddy’, and Miles was ‘Uniform Daddy’.

                “Adults do silly things sometimes,” Scar explained.

                “Grumman’s stepping down,” Miles explained joyfully. “We’re never going to have a Führer again, and there’s going to be elections for the office of the presidency.”

                “So?” Scar asked, not understanding his excitement. “It’s not like we’ll be able to vote.” The Ishval Annexation Act had not granted Ishvalans suffrage. Not that it had mattered after Bradley had come to power; under his reign elections were held, but Bradley’s name was the only one on the ballot for the office of the presidency. Scar thought for a moment. “Or are you going to be able to vote? Does the law consider you Amestrian or Ishvalan where elections are concerned?”

                “Aerugan, actually,” Miles said. “The law was patrilineal where suffrage was concerned. I always made a point of turning in a blank ballot any time that man felt like holding one of his sham elections. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They changed the laws. You’re going to be able to vote, too, now.”

                “Can I vote?” Adva asked excitedly. “And what is voting?”

                Miles picked up their daughter and twirled her around. “Voting is when the people get to select their leader, rather than the leader just deciding things for himself. But, not, you won’t be able to vote. Voting is an adult activity.”

                “Like sex?” Adva asked.

                “Where did you hear that word?” Scar asked, scandalized.

                Adva huffed. “I am eight years and two months old, Daddy. I _know_ things.”

                “What exactly do you know about sex?” Miles asked apprehensively, setting Adva down.

                “That it’s an adult activity,” Adva said primly, clearly confidence that that was all there was to the matter.

                “Anyway,” Scar said, eager to change the subject, “I’ve never voted before. How are they doing it?”

                “Candidates have two weeks to announce their candidacy. Then, on the Lesser Festival of Stone, everyone votes. You’ll go in, get a ballot, and when you turn in the ballot, they dye your finger purple. It’ll wash off after a few days, but that way, they know that no one votes twice.”

                “Why the Lesser Festival of Stone?” Scar asked. The Greater Festival of Stone celebrated Ishvala’s creation of the Ishvalan people from clay. It was a major holiday in Ishval. The Lesser Festival of Stone celebrated Ishvala’s creation of river stones. It was not a major holiday in Ishval, although as a priest, Scar was always scrupulous to observe it.

                “Coincidence, I think,” Miles said. “But, wow, democracy. This is unexpected.”

                “I wonder if any Ishvalans are going to run,” Scar said.

                “Major General Armstrong is going to be a great president,” Miles said at the exact same moment.

                “Armstrong?” Scar asked, making a face.

                “She’s been a steadfast ally,” Miles protested. “She has my vote.”

                “But-” Scar began, only for the disagreement to be interrupted by Adva’s sniffling.

                “Why are you fighting?” Adva asked, near tears. Scar and Miles were silent instantly. Adva had a naturally sunny disposition, but she had lost her biological parents at a very tender age. Scar and Miles both crouched down so that they were eye-level with their daughter.

                “We’re not fighting,” Miles assured her. “Alchemist Daddy and I just disagree on who we want to vote for.”

                “And that’s okay,” Scar added, his mind racing to remember what he’d learned in the parenting class that his master had had he and Miles take. Unable to think further than that, he grabbed one of the cats – there was always a cat or two within reach – and handed her to Adva, who hugged her.

                “We still love each other,” Miles said.

                “Right,” Scar agreed. “And we still love you. And nothing will change that.”

                “And anyway,” Miles said, “we don’t even actually know who’s running yet.”

                They – and everyone else – had the answer after the two week deadline came and went. In the end, four candidates were running. To the surprise of no one who knew them, Brigadier General Roy Mustang and Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong both threw their hats in the ring.

                “New Vision Party,” Scar read from the newspaper about Mustang’s candidacy. “No, thank you.”

                “New Order Party,” Miles read from the same newspaper about Armstrong’s candidacy. “Just what this country needs.” So that they could read at the same time, Miles was sitting on Scar’s lap. In turn, one of their cats was sitting on Miles’ lap. There was also a cat on Adva’s lap. The other cats were strewn across the furniture, windowsills, and the counters they most definitely knew they weren’t allowed to sleep on.

                “Ah, here it is,” Scar said, his eyes scanning the article. “Isaiah Keystone is running under the Unification & Reconciliation Party.” Isaiah Keystone was Scar’s master in the priesthood.

                “Well,” Miles conceded, “I won’t be sad if he wins.”

                “And I could live with Armstrong,” Scar admitted, “just as long as it’s not Mustang.”

                “Or Storch,” Miles said, reading further.

                “Who?”

                “Harold Storch of the Amestrian Purity Party, backed by the Amestrian Purity League.”

                “Aren’t they terrorists?”

                “You’re thinking of the Legion for Amestrian Purity,” Miles said. He rolled his eyes. “The Amestrian Purity League swears up and down that they’ve got no relation to the Legion for Amestrian Purity. Not that anyone can tell, with the masks that they wear.”

                “Masks?” Scar asked. Miles was more in tune with the happenings of the rest of Amestris than Scar was.

                “Yeah,” Miles said. “Carnival masks. To go along with the bedsheets that they wear as togas.”

                “Didn’t the Legion go in for bedsheet togas?” Scar asked.

                “Yup,” Miles said, “but the Legion didn’t wear carnival masks to conceal their identities. The League does. Therefore, they’re completely different.”

                Adva looked up from where she was eating her breakfast. “Uniform Daddy, are you being sarcaustic?”

                “You mean sarcastic, honey,” Miles said, “and yes, I am.”

                “So who is Storch?” Scar asked.

                “He was Bradley’s presidential aide,” Miles explained.

                Scar thought hard. “Wait, isn’t he in prison?”

                “He is,” Miles said. “He’s also running for president.”

                “Is that allowed?” Adva asked.

                “Well,” Miles said, “there’s no rule against it.”

                Scar and Miles were not the only two engrossed with the news of who was running for president, but there was one person who wouldn’t have been able to name a single candidate. That person was Winry Rockbell, and as she headed toward the Sarah & Yuriy Rockbell Automail Wing of the New Light Memorial Hospital in New Ishval, the only thought she could hold in her mind was that Edward Elric was finally coming back from his journey westward. They’d finally be able to get married!

                That was, it was the only thing Winry Rockbell could think about until she turned the corner and found Meital Pasternack sobbing. She was sitting with her back against the wall, and she was positively shaking. There was a discarded newspaper at her feet. Winry rushed over to her friend.

                They’d met after Roy Mustang had been convicted of murdering Meital’s parents, only to be pardoned shortly thereafter. Meital had been inconsolable, so Mistress Shan had asked Winry to take Meital out for the evening. A girl’s night out could only fix so much, but it had given Meital someone to write at. Meital was non-verbal, and Winry’s mastery of Ishvalan sign language was a far way off, so Meital had brought a notepad and written in it extensively for Winry to read.

                “Meital!” Winry called, putting her arm around Meital. “What’s wrong?” Forcing herself to think, Winry continued in Ishvalan. “Are you okay?” Winry’s Ishvalan was limited, but she’d been learning from Garfiel’s other apprentices. He had a number who’d come from Ishval to learn how to make automail suited to desert climates so that they could open up their own shops in their home region when they finished their apprenticeships. (Garfiel had been learning as well, as for the past half year he’d been dating the family friend of one of his apprentices.)

                Meital pointed at the discard newspaper, and Winry picked it up. MUSTANG RUNS FOR PRESIDENT the headline blazed.

                “Come on,” Winry said, helping Meital to her feet. “It will be okay.” She had no way of knowing if that was true, but she didn’t know what else to say. Meital had gone through a lot of get Mustang convicted, and now there was a chance that he was going to be the leader of their country.


	3. The Drachman Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was originally planning this fan fic, I had intended to use Halcrow as the League's candidate. However, I ended up deciding that Halcrow probably had too lawful of an alignment for that and so went with Storch instead. As soon as I decided on Storch, I thought, "Wow. Storch probably really hates Roy Mustang." I felt that ended up working well for the story, but if I had happened to choose Klemin or Edison instead, the plot would have gone differently. Anyway, neither Klemin nor Edison appear in this fan fic, but they're cheering Storch on from their prison cell off page.

                All throughout Amestris, the candidates were preparing their campaigns. In the prison visitation area in Central City Prison, two members of the Amestrian Purity League visited the former Lieutenant Colonel Harold Storch. They weren’t able to wear masks in the prison, of course, so they had not announced their association to the guards, claiming only to be friends of Storch.

                “Thank you for coming, Brethren,” Storch said, gripping a stack of loose papers in his hands. “We lost so much on the Day of Reckoning. Not just our cherished Führer but our very identity was taken from us. But we’ll get it back. When I’m elected president, Mustang’s blood will run through the streets.” Prison had impacted Storch, giving him an almost religious fervor.

                “What about Armstrong?” asked one of the League members, a lawyer by the name of August Cockburn.

                “Her, too,” Storch said, “but Mustang first. I want to slit his throat personally.”

                “Isn’t that illegal?” asked the other League member, whose name was Eric Dunst. Eric sold second-hand meat for a living.

                “Not if I become president first,” Storch said. “Then we’ll crush Ishval under our heel and restore this country to its proper glory.”

                “Are we slitting Scar’s throat, too?” asked Eric. “I heard he was the one who did poor Bradley in.”

                “Yes, of course,” Storch said. “First Mustang, then Armstrong, and then Scar.”

                “Shouldn’t we do Scar before Armstrong?” asked Eric. “I mean, he assassinated the president. Armstrong’s just a bitch who needs to be put in her place.” His words were all the proof needed that he’d never met Olivier Armstrong in person.

                “Fine,” Storch said. “As long as we kill Mustang first.”

                “What about Isaiah Keystone?” asked Cockburn. “Does his throat get slit?”

                “Who?” Storch asked, staring at him in confusion.

                “One of your political opponents,” Cockburn explained. “Some Ishvalan priest who thinks he should be president.”

                “Uh, sure,” Storch said. “We probably should on principle. So that’s the plan. I become president. Then I gorge out Mustang’s eyes, crush his testicles, and slit his throat so that his blood runs down the street. Then whatever with Scar, Armstrong, and what’s his face. Is that satisfactory to all parties involved?”

                “Sounds good to me,” Eric said.

                “I have no complaints,” Cockburn said, “but I think we should work on a more extensive party platform. Mustang deserves everything coming to him, but I don’t think that just promising to kill him will persuade enough people to vote for you if you want to win.”

                “Are you sure?” Storch asked.

                “Very certain,” Cockburn said. “There are four candidates running. To become president, a candidate must get a plurality of the votes. That’s at a minimum 25% plus one vote. I don’t think Mustang has pissed off that many people in Amestris such that they’d vote for you just to see his head on a pike. At least, not yet. Give him a few years, and he might get there.”

                “Got it,” Storch said. “Add ‘Put Mustang’s head on a pike’ to the party platform. And also some other stuff.”

                “I’ll hand the details,” Cockburn assured him smoothly.

                “Good,” Storch said. He thrust the manuscript he was holding toward Eric, slipping it through the slot in the glass that separated Cockburn and Eric from Storch. “Now, there isn’t much time. Prison visitation hours are nearly over. Take this and have it published.”

                “Yes, Your Excellency,” Eric said, looking down as the first page of the manuscript. It read: I Was Framed: the Authorized Autobiography of Lieutenant Colonel Harold Storch, Who Never Betrayed His Excellency Führer President King Bradley, But Who Was Coerced Into Giving A False Confession By The Traitor Roy Mustang.

                Cockburn glanced at the title. “Maybe something shorter would be better?”

                “Like what?”

                “I don’t know, The Storch Story or My Struggles or something,” Cockburn said.

                “I like this title,” Storch said. “It’s descriptive.”

                Storch was not the only candidate whose campaign planning involved a prison. Isaiah Keystone was also in one, but he was not there as a prisoner. Ishvala commanded his priests to minister to those in prison. As the rebuilding of Ishval had progressed and become smoother, Isaiah had found himself not quite so busy, and so he had taken to visiting Dr. Tim Marcoh in his prison cell on occasion. (He had tried to visit the only other prisoner in Ishval, the former State Alchemist Bart Kirchner, but after Kirchner had bit him in the middle of the visit, Isaiah had sternly warned him that he would receive no further visits until his behavior improved. Kirchner hadn’t improved his behavior, but he had taken to complaining that he never got any visitors.)

                “Ishvala stuck a rough stone in the stream and held it there until it became smooth,” Isaiah read to Marcoh from the Holy Scriptures of Ishval. He read slowly and stopped if Marcoh looked confused, as sometimes he had to translate a more archaic word or turn of the phrase into Amestrian so that Marcoh would understand. “The smoothness of it was pleasing to him, so Ishvala added more rough stones to the stream. For this reason, we celebrate the Lesser Festival of Stone, to remind ourselves that what was once rough can become smooth under the right circumstances.” Isaiah gently shut the Scriptures. “Visitations hours are nearly up, so I should be going.”

                Marcoh brought his hands – palms flat and thumb out – up to his chin and then moved them forward and away from his face. The sign meant _Thank you very much_.

                “You’re welcome,” Isaiah said.

                Marcoh hesitated and then made further signs. _I read you were running for president_.

                “I am,” Isaiah said. “I am overjoyed to see Amestris embracing democracy. Great things can come of this.”

                _Can I do anything to help?_ Marcoh signed.

                Isaiah smiled at him. “Of course. Every bit of help is appreciated.” He patted Marcoh’s hand. “Now, I really must be going. Have a good evening.”

                Marcoh signed for him to have a good evening, as well, and Isaiah left.

                In the cold walls of Briggs, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong was putting the final touches on her campaign platform when she was informed that a Drachman spy had been captured and was awaiting interrogation.

                “Thank you, soldier,” Olivier said. She addressed her aide-de-camp, Lance Corporal Naomi Kanda. “Did Colonel Miles cover torture in your training?”

                Kanda started. “No, sir.”

                “That was very neglectful of him,” Olivier said. “No matter. It’s about time you got blood on that dagger of yours.” After Brigadier General Mustang’s trial and subsequent pardon, Olivier had gifted Kanda a dagger of the Armstrong family, as Mustang had been the State Alchemist who had murdered Kanda’s parents. The dagger was small and easily concealed. Like most things in the Armstrong name, it was both beautiful and solidly crafted. Olivier rather suspected that it was worth more than everything else Kanda owned combined.

                “You want me to torture him for information, sir?” Kanda asked. There was the slightest note of hesitation in her voice, and Olivier sighed inwardly. Kanda was still so young. Olivier suspected that it would years before she’d molded Kanda into the woman Olivier believed her capable of becoming. Still, Olivier had the patience for it. While she would never admit it out loud, she was rather fond of Kanda. She wanted to give Kanda her best.

                “No, Lance Corporal,” Olivier explained crisply. “You never torture for information. If you attempt to torture for information, you’ll only get whatever pack of lies the enemy wants you to have. Chances are, this spy wanted to be captured so that he could feed us misinformation.”

                “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. So I won’t be torturing him, sir?” Kanda asked, sounding too relieved for Olivier’s liking.

                “Of course you’ll be torturing him,” Olivier said firmly. “We need to know what information those blasted Drachmans want us to believe. To that end, we need to torture the spy so that he’ll think he’s fooled us.”

                “Yes, sir,” Kanda said obediently.

                “Now,” Olivier lectured, “the first step in torture is to decide if the tortured is going to be alive or dead at the end of it. Which do you think is the case for this spy?”

                “Um,” Kanda said, thinking hard. “Well, Grumman’s been pushing for a firmer peace with Drachma, so, alive?”

                “Correct,” Olivier said. “Grumman’s going to want the man ransomed back afterward. So we don’t want the spy to be sent back missing too many pieces. When we get in the room, you aren’t to say anything because anything we give away will go back to Drachma. But watch how I hit him and then do the same. There are ways to strike a man that don’t leave heavy marks.”

                “Yes, sir,” Kanda said.

                “Now, Briggs has a reputation to maintain, and we can’t let Drachma think they can walk all over us, so when I tell you to, cut off the littlest finger on his left hand. After that, we’ll let him tell us whatever lies he wants us to have. This way, Lance Corporal.”

                The torture session took longer than Olivier would have preferred. Halfway through, she had to pull Kanda out of the room and sternly remind her that it was weakness to cry in front of the enemy. She had caught Kanda in time to address the issue before any tears actually started to fall, but she was concerned that the spy might nevertheless have seen it in her face, the same way Olivier had. Still, Kanda got through it, and Olivier was proud of her for that.

                In East City, Roy Mustang and his campaign prepared their platform. Roy and Riza’s relationship had come out in the open at Roy’s trial, so they no longer made any effort to hide it. Which was to say, Roy was sitting on Riza’s lap, his arms draped across her shoulders. As soon as he’d sat down on her lap, he’d expected her to stand up, dumping him onto the floor. He had grinned when she hadn’t done this right way. He still expected to end up the floor eventually, but he was eager to see how long he could stay where he was at. Riza, for her part, was steadfast ignoring the fact that Roy was on her lap, carrying on as if nothing out of the usual was occurring.

                Technically, they could have gotten in a great deal of trouble for their relationship, but with Grumman’s enthusiastic support, most everyone turned a blind eye, despite their complete lack of discretion. (After two years hiding their relationship, the affection Roy and Riza had for each other had come out with a vengeance.)

                “Okay,” Havoc asked, balancing on his crutches, “what’s your position on the Bouncing Hills?” Roy had used his Philosopher’s Stone to heal Havoc as soon as he’d regained his eyesight, but there had still been some physical therapy involved, and he had good days and bad days. Roy had secured Havoc his old rank, but Havoc was not yet ready to return to field duty. It was possible that he never would be. Roy didn’t know if he had done something incorrectly or if it was merely a consequence of there being so much time between the injury and the healing. He lay awake at night sometimes, wondering if he had misinterpreted something in the densely worded medical textbook or if it would have been worth the risk to bribe a medical alchemist to do the healing instead. Roy wished he hadn’t lost contact with Marcoh after Marcoh had given him the Stone.

                “I’m willing to give the Bouncing Hills back to Aerugo as part of a peace treaty,” Roy said promptly.

                “Won’t play well with the bedsheet-wearers,” Fuery noted from the desk where he was taking notes.

                “Well, damn the bedsheet-wearers,” Roy said.

                “You can’t get elected unless you win a plurality,” Riza reminded him. She rubbed the small of his back, working her hand under his shirt to make contact with his bare skin.

                “Yeah,” Breda said. “And you’re not polling very well in Ishval.”

                “Surprise,” Roy said dryly before adding, “How bad is it?”

                “You’re at 1% with a plus or minus 11% margin of error.”

                “Does that mean negative ten percent of Ishvalans support his candidacy?” Havoc asked.

                Roy groaned. “Probably.” Roy hoped that the Ishvalans would come to accept his presidency as the act of atonement he intended it to be, but he had to get elected first. “So who does like me?” he asked.

                “Military families and suburban house wives,” Breda said. “People who see you as a continuation of the status quo. I’d advise against a platform that’s too radical.”

                “What about my opponents?” Roy asked. “Armstrong I expected, and Storch I’m not too worried about, but who’s this Isaiah Keystone guy? Is he any relation to Scar?” After the rebuilding of Ishval had begun, Scar had legally taken Ezekiel Keystone as his name. Breda has pulled the court records for it after Roy’s trial.

                “I poked around about that,” Breda said. “He’s Scar’s master in the priesthood.”

                “Scar’s a _priest_?” Roy asked incredulously.

                “That would appear to be the case, sir,” Breda said.

                “We could use Scar against Isaiah Keystone,” Fuery said. “Oh, and don’t forget you are meeting Major General Halcrow at nine, sir.”

                “This shouldn’t take long,” Roy said. “And we can definitely use Scar.” He looked as though he wanted to rub his chin in a devious manner, but doing so would have required him to take his hand off of Riza, so instead he nuzzled his head into her neck. She, in turn, had moved her hand around his front, and was absentmindedly untucking his shirt all the way around. Roy grinned again. She was still keeping a straight face, but perhaps he wouldn’t end up on the floor after all.

                “I have information that could be of use there,” Riza said. “I have reason to believe that Scar and Colonel Miles are romantically involved.”

                “Really?” Roy asked. He looked at Breda, who shrugged defensively.

                “I’ve checked out Miles’ house, but I couldn’t get close.”

                “Why not?”

                “There’s a moat around his property.”

                “So, Scar and Miles,” Roy mused. “Honestly, I can’t picture it. No, wait, now I can. Okay, I’m going to try to stop picturing it.” He made a face. “Oh, my next meeting with Colonel Miles is going to be awkward.”

                “Sorry, sir,” Riza said. “Just reporting the facts. But if we could get some pictures of the two of them together…”

                “Oh, that’s nice,” Roy said, as Riza worked her hand up his front. He coughed and turned his attention back to business. “I’m hesitant to attack Miles and Scar’s relationship. It’s underhanded and, well, somewhat hypocritical.”

                “Hypocritical, sir?” Riza asked.

                “Yeah,” Havoc said. “It’s not like you’re dating Scar. Or Miles. You’re not dating Colonel Miles, are you, sir?”

                “No,” Roy and Riza said simultaneously.

                “Could you elaborate, sir?” Fuery asked.

                “Oh, you all remember how the Academy was,” Roy said. The men in the room nodded, but Riza did not.

                “Didn’t the girls ever-” Havoc started, only for Riza to cut him off.

                “No,” she said. “We didn’t do that.”

                “You didn’t let me finish my sentence, Lieutenant,” Havoc protested.

                “Whatever the question was, the answer is still ‘no’,” Riza said. “There weren’t many women in the Academy, and we got policed twice as hard as the men did.” A faint smile crossed her face, like perhaps she was remembering her own Academy days. Then it was gone, and she said. “No. There was nothing.” Roy was the only close enough to her to hear her faintly add, “that can be proved, anyway.”

                “What was his name, sir?” Fuery asked.

                “Oh, no,” Roy said. “It wasn’t anything like that. My Academy days weren’t exactly the same as Miles relationship with Scar. It was just, you know, juvenile stuff. Anyway, there are pictures. Eve has them.”

                “What?” Riza asked.

                “Where can we find this Eve woman?” Breda demanded.

                Roy chortled. “Eve’s a man, actually. He tried to just go by his last name like everyone else did, but when it came out that his first name was ‘Everett’, everyone took to calling him ‘Eve’. Immature, I know, but you all remember the Academy. We had to take our laughs where we could.”

                “We need to find this Everett, then,” said Breda. “We can’t let the pictures come out. Where is he, sir?”

                “Six feet under,” Roy told him. “So we don’t ever have to worry about the pictures coming out.”

                “What happened, sir?” Riza asked.

                “Scar,” Roy explained, “so I guess you could say he did me one good favor.”

                “Everett was a State Alchemist?” Fuery asked.

                “No, Eve never made it passed Lieutenant,” Roy said. “I lost touch with him after the Academy, but his name popped up when we were searching for Scar. Eve got discharged on some corruption charges and ended up having a run in with Scar outside of East City. From the testimony of the only survivor, Eve had hired a couple of bounty hunters to bring Scar in. Scar killed one of the bounty hunters on the spot, maimed the other, and took Eve outside of the encampment to finish him off. And well, as you can imagine, that was the end of poor Everett Yoki.” Scar had been so thorough that the authorities had never even found the body. The surviving bounty hunter had been so scared he hadn’t come forward to the authorities until after the Silver Alchemist had been killed.

                Major General Halcrow walked in the room right then, for his planned meeting with Roy, which Roy was five minutes late for. He stopped, stared at the assembly, and then shouted, “For the love of God, Brigadier General, show some discretion. Get off your lieutenant’s lap and tuck your shirt in.” He rubbed his forehead and made a mental note to vote for someone else -- anyone else.

                Riza stood up then, dumping Roy unceremoniously on his rear on the floor.


	4. Campaigning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some world-building in this chapter, as I wanted there to be some campaign points beyond just "Do you support or oppose sacrificing everyone in the country in order to obtain godhood for yourself?"

                The first weekend after the campaigning began was a long weekend in Ishval, as there were two feast days back to back. Scar hated to miss the festivities, but he and Miles were both forever busy at their respective jobs, so they decided to use the time to help the candidates they were each supporting. One of Scar’s former students had agreed to stay at their place, to look after Adva and to mind the cats. Even after nearly three years, Scar still found in odd how he could no longer simply come and go as he pleased. Now he had obligations that had to be weighed and accounted for. If he wanted to help his master after the long weekend, he was going to have to use some of his vacation time. (The flip side, he reflected, was that he no longer had to sift through dumpsters to find a meal. He didn’t miss that.)

                Even with the improvements made to Amestris’ rail transportation system, it was still a whirlwind of travel and activity. Major General Armstrong and Master Isaiah had requested the same thing from Miles and Scar, respectively; learn what the common people of Amestris wanted.

                After the train had pulled out of station in New Ishval and been traveling for a bit, Miles reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He showed it to Scar. “Did I ever show you this?”

                “No,” Scar said, “I don’t believe so. What does it go to?”

                “An empty storage room in Briggs,” Miles explained. “Armstrong gave it to me, years ago. It helped a lot.”

                “If it’s empty, why does it need a key?” Scar asked. He winced internally at the pained look that crossed Miles’ face. Scar hadn’t been trying to be dismissive, but it was clear that he had said the wrong thing. Miles shoved the key back in his pocket. Scar tried to think what his master would tell him to say in the situation. “It’s important to you,” was what Scar finally settled on.

                “It is,” Miles said. He fished the key back out of his pocket. “It’s just hard to talk about, even though you’ll understand better than anyone at Briggs could.”

                “Take your time,” Scar said. He smiled reassuringly at Miles, and as the trained pulled into the next station, Miles started to explain to Scar about the key. However, right then, quite a few people got on, and Scar and Miles found they no longer had a booth to themselves.

                “I’ll explain tonight,” Miles promised as the train set out again.  

                Their first stop was the town square of a Cretan neighborhood outside of Pembleton. It wasn’t a feast day outside of Ishval, and a crowd of people soon gathered around them.

                “What do you two want?” asked a man. Scar was aware that he and Miles didn’t blend in in the neighborhood, where fair skin, green eyes, and red hair was more common than their coloration.

                “Hey, isn’t that Colonel Miles?” called another man, pushing his way through the gathered crowd. He stepped forward, pumping Miles’ hand. “I’m Eadan. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

                Scar cast a confused glance at Miles and then at Eadan, who had entirely ignored Scar. “What?”

                Eadan looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you know? Colonel Miles is the highest ranked Cretan soldier in the military. He’s our pride and joy.”

                “I know, I know,” called another voice from the crowd. “We have to share him with the Ishvalans and Aerugans.” A woman stepped forward and said, “Good to see you again, Bradley.”

                “It’s Miles now,” Miles said. “Miles Keystone. I had it legally changed.”

                The woman glanced at Scar. “And that’s Scar AKA Ezekiel _Keystone_ , right?”

                “Right,” Miles said.

                “Got it,” the woman said with a knowing look. She held out her hand for Scar to shake. “I’m Derval Carey. Bra- I mean Miles here is my, um, well his maternal grandmother is my paternal grandmother’s sister. Which makes him, well, a something cousin to me.”

                “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Scar said genuinely. “I was not expecting to get to meet any members of Miles’ family today.”

                Miles laughed. “I wasn’t either. I didn’t know you’d moved here, Derval. God, I haven’t seen you in years.”

                “We moved last year,” Derval explained. “After Eadan and I tied the knot. But come, come, it’s nearly lunch time. You two should join us for a meal.”

                “Thank you,” Miles said, and he and Scar followed Derval and Eadan to their home.

                Once they were out of earshot of the rest of the crowd, Eadan looked around to make sure no one could overhear and then lowered his voice nonetheless. “So, Colonel, I can be a bit slow – just ask my wife – but Scar’s your beau, right?”

                “Right,” Miles said. “We’ve been together about two and half years now. Almost three, actually.”

                “And I’m happy to meet more members of his family,” Scar said, making an effort to be friendly.

                “So, Colonel,” Eadan asked, “have you met many members of Scar’s family?”

                Scar glowered despite himself, and Miles looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that wasn’t possible.”

                “Oh, right, of course,” Eadan said. “I’m a right fool. Mouth just big enough to fit my foot in it, as my mam always said.”

                Scar forced himself to release the tension in his muscles. Eadan’s intentions hadn’t been malicious. “Miles has met my master, Isaiah Keystone.”

                “Isn’t he running for president?” Eadan asked, clearly hoping that this wasn’t another bad question.

                “He is,” Scar said, wondering if he should say more.

                “So what brings the two of you out this way?” Derval asked, finally coming to her husband’s rescue.

                “We’re campaigning,” Scar explained. “I’m supporting my master.”

                “And I’m supporting Major General Armstrong,” Miles said.

                “Ooo,” Derval said. “Different candidates.”

                “What about you and Eadan?” Miles asked his cousin.

                “Honestly, we haven’t decided yet,” Derval said. “What can your candidates do for us?” They paused as they reached the apartment of Derval and Eadan. Derval opened the door, the quartet entered.

                “That’s kind of why we’re here,” Miles said. “What is it that you’d want our candidates to do for you?”

                Eadan and Derval looked at each other and then said together, “Get rid of the Partible Inheritance Act.”

                “What’s the Partible Inheritance Act?” Scar asked.

                “Amestrian oppression,” Eadan said. Derval’s explanation was more thorough, although she waited until the tea has been made and served before answering.

                “The Partible Inheritance Act declared that when a man dies, all his assets must be split between all of his sons equally,” she said, “but the catch is that it only applies to polytheist families.”

                “Are Cretans generally polytheist, then?” Scar asked.

                “Usually,” Eadan said.

                Derval gestured at three clay figures that sat on a shelf above the kitchen sink. “We have household gods. So our property gets split further and further each generation until it can’t be used for anything.”

                Scar was starting to see the problem. “A twenty-four acre farm becomes two twelve acre farms if there are two sons and then six two acre farms if there are three grandsons.”

                “Then none of the two acre farms make a profit, and some rich Amestrian comes in and buys up all the farms on the cheap,” Derval concluded. “And then all twenty-four acres get inherited by his eldest son, since Amestrians aren’t usually polytheist.”

                “At least not if they’re rich,” Eadan said, “because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to steal Cretan land.”

                “Gran never mentioned any of this,” Miles commented.

                Derval laughed. “That’s because only men can inherit, traditionally.” She turned to Scar. “His grandmother is the eldest. From what my gran said, her sister got pissed that their brother was going to get everything – he was the only boy, see – so she moved to Ishval with that young man of hers.”

                “How does Ishval handle inheritance?” Eadan asked.

                “Property is communal,” Scar explained. “It’s owned by the family as a whole. Do you think that would be better than the Partible Inheritance Act?” Internally, Scar admitted that the system wasn’t perfect. For instance, in a different family, his brother’s practice of alchemy could have easily led to him becoming homeless. Property being held by the family collectively only worked if the family didn’t have serious internal disputes. Still, it was the best system he could think of.  

                “Probably,” Derval said, “but it wouldn’t fly with a lot of the menfolk. They’d want a system where only the eldest inherits. They wouldn’t want to share with their sisters and younger brothers. The eldest son getting everything was how things were before the Partible Inheritance Act.”

                “That hardly seems fair to the sisters or younger brothers,” Scar said.

                “Yeah, but it’s a divine decree,” Eadan said. “And it’s not like you can argue with the household gods.”

                Scar looked confused. “You can’t?”

                Eadan also looked confused. “What, do Ishvalans argue with Ishvala about religious laws?”

                “Yes,” Scar said. “Not often, but it’s been known to happen.” Internally, Scar had admitted that this fact didn’t preclude rigidity – as he himself had so often demonstrated in the past. Writing new holy scripture favoring alchemy had had an impact on Scar without him realizing it.

                Derval gave a light laugh. “I hope that Keystone and Armstrong have fun trying to find a solution that pleases everyone,” she said. The talk turned to other matters, and when the tea was finished, Scar and Miles bid Derval and Eadan farewell and continued to their next stop.

                The Armstrong and Keystone campaigns were naturally not the only ones with boots on the ground. The Amestrian Purity League held rallies across the country, distributing copies of Storch’s autobiography. In one of the suburbs of North City, Ross and Havoc were distributing pamphlets door to door.

                “Vote for Mustang,” Havoc said cheerily as Ross handed a pamphlet to the woman who was at the latest residence. Havoc was again using his crutches. He’d actually been having a good day, but he knew that he and Ross were going to be out and about for a long duration, so he’d brought the full ensemble just in case.

                Ross had designed the pamphlet herself, at Mustang’s direction. The front read Mustang: A Man for the Future. Then inside the pamphlet were Mustang’s positions on key issues, simplified and bullet pointed.

                The woman looked at them hesitantly. “I don’t know,” she said. “My neighbor Sally – she’s the one down the street, at the corner – she said she was reading this book – it was free; isn’t that nice? – well, the book said that Mustang was behind the human experiment stuff that happened on the Day of Reckoning. Oh, that was an awful day! I never want to feel like that again. It was like my soul was ripped out of my body.”

                Ross and Havoc waited until she had finished and then looked at each other uneasily. “I don’t think that that’s right,” Havoc said finally.

                “Mustang was a firm supporter of Bradley,” Ross lied, doing her best to ignore the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

                “Well, if that’s the case,” the woman asked, “why is he so soft on the Ishvalans? I was in the city a couple of weeks ago, and did you know that there are Ishvalans stationed at Fort Briggs? If Drachma decides to invade, I need to know that the good people of this country will be protected.”

                “We’ll take that into consideration, Ma’am,” Havoc assured her, and they ambled toward the next house. There was already a man knocking on the door. The man was wearing a bedsheet as a toga, and there was a carnival mask obscuring his face. An elderly man answered. Neither man appeared to see or hear Havoc and Ross approach, but they could hear the conversation as they got closer.

                “Can Harold Storch count of your vote?” asked the solicitor.

                “No,” said the elderly man. “I’m voting for Armstrong.”

                “You’ll want to reconsider that,” said the solicitor. He brought his hand up, and Havoc and Ross realized her was holding a small club. The club crashed into the chest of the elderly man, knocking him backward.

                “Freeze!” shouted Havoc. The Amestrian Purity League member looked over at him and then began running down the street, his makeshift toga flapping in the wind.

                “Help the old guy,” Ross instructed her partner and then tour off after the League member. The League member turned the block corner, and when she rounded the corner, she’d lost sight of him. Then she heard a door slam. She followed the sound and headed cautiously to that house. When she reached it, she knocked on the door.

                It was answered by a man she didn’t recognize. He was had a thinner build than the man she had been perusing, who’d been on the stocky side. He was also quite old, and while he didn’t look frail, he didn’t look like he could run half a block like the culprit had.

                “Can I help you?” the man asked.

                “Did a man just run in here?” Ross asked.

                “Nope,” the man said. “Why do you ask?”

                Ross tried to peer around the man, but she could see nothing. Realizing that she was going to get nowhere, she held out one of the pamphlets. “Vote for Mustang.”

                “Mustang!” the man said, his mouth wrinkling into a smile. “Did you know that I was the lead lawyer at his trial? Such a tragic affair; I wish I had been able to get him off.”

                “No worries,” Ross said. “Grumman pardoned him, so it all worked out in the end.”

                “I suppose it did,” the man said. He stuck out his hand. “August Cockburn.”

                “2nd Lieutenant Maria Ross,” she said, shaking it. “I hope Mustang can count on your vote.”

                “Pleasure to meet you,” Cockburn said. “Have a good time campaigning.”

                “Thank you,” Ross said. Cockburn shut the door, and she headed back to make sure that the elderly man who had been struck was okay. Havoc told her that he wanted to take the man to the hospital in case he had a grade 3 concussion, but he was pretty sure he’d be fine. She was also eager to report back to Mustang on the day’s events; it was clear that the Storch campaign intended to do politics dirty.

                On the fourth day of Scar and Miles’ travels, they ended up in an Aerugan neighborhood in the southern part of Amestris. They hadn’t actually meant to end up there. They’d been heading to South City, missed their stop, and then gotten lost. By the time they realized that they weren’t where they thought they were, it was nearly lunch time, so they began looking for a place to eat.

                “Scar? And Major Miles” they heard a voice from behind them call. Turning around, they saw that they had just walked past Jerso.

                “Good day,” Miles said. “It’s actually Colonel Miles now. When did you two get back from Xing?”

                “Is May with you?” Scar asked.

                “And Al, too,” said Jerso. “I was just grabbing lunch for us. Care to join us?” He lifted the bag he was holding.

                “Yes, thank you,” Miles said. “We were just looking for a place to eat.”

                Scar and Miles followed Jerso.

                “We’re going to my sister Jill’s place,” Jerso explained.

                “You went home then?” Miles asked.

                “Yeah,” Jerso said. “I didn’t want to, but May and Al insisted.”

                “Good for you,” Scar said.

                “Yeah, yeah, I suppose,” Jerso said, “but if you ask me, they’re a couple of selfish little beasts.”

                “Reconsider your words,” Scar growled.

                Jerso sighed. “In May’s case, a selfish little beast like a unicorn or a fawn.” This placated Scar.

                “What’s that all about?” Miles asked.

                Jerso gave them a dark look. “No, they can tell you themselves. Anyway, what brings you two to this neck of the woods?”

                “Campaigning,” Miles explained. “We’re getting on the street feedback on what people want from a president.”

                “Some equal pay laws would be nice,” Jerso said.

                “Equal pay laws?” Scar asked. Ishval had only transitioned back to a monetary economy a couple years prior. Before that, Scar had been unemployed and wanted by the law. And before even that, he’d been a priest supported by the community.

                “Well, yeah,” Jerso said. “Aerugans in Amestris are supposed to be just, you know, Amestrian even if we’re from the part of Amestris that was once part of Aerugo.” He waved a hand, indicating his dark skin. Not all Aerugans had brown skin and dark hair, but it was a common coloration. “But employers can tell if you’re not a pure-blood Amestrian, so sometimes they pay you less as a result. It was part of the reason I enlisted; the military pays everyone the same.” He shot a look at Scar. “Stupid reason to join the military, I guess.”

                Scar nodded but didn’t say anything. The conversation was ended by their arrival at the residence of Jerso’s sister Jill, who took in Scar and Miles with wide eyes.

                “More houseguests?” she asked her brother incredulously. “Are they going to sleep in the bathtub? Or under the kitchen table?”

                “We’re not staying, ma’am,” Miles assured her. “Jerso just invited us to lunch. I’m Colonel Miles, and this is Ezekiel.”

                “Pleased to meet you, in that case,” said Jill. She mouthed ‘Scar?’ at Scar, and he nodded. He liked ‘Ezekiel’ and ‘Scar’ equally, and he answered to either. She let her brother, Miles, and Scar in the house, where Scar and Miles found Zampano, May, Xiao May, and Al already there. Al, Scar saw, was dressed in Xingese clothing. Fancy and expensive Xingese clothing, from the looks of things. The same was true for May. (When Scar got close enough, he realized that Xiao May was wearing a miniature outfit that matched May’s.)

                “Mr. Scar!” May exclaimed, hugging him about the waist when she saw him.

                “Hello,” Scar said softly.

                “Okay, let’s eat,” Jill said, and everyone did their best to cram around the dining room table. Thankfully, Jill had just enough chairs. Scar noted silently how close May and Al were sitting next to each other. It was his first time seeing Al in the flesh in person, but May had included a photograph of the two of them in her most recent letter to Scar.

                “It’s good to be home,” Jerso said over the meal.

                Jill snorted and addressed Scar and Miles. “So here I am, minding my own business this morning, when my brother – who I thought was dead, mind you, like, I attended his funeral and couldn’t-” Jill’s voice cracked here, and Scar saw that there were tears in her eyes. She composed herself and continued “Anyway, my dead brother shows up alive and well telling me that the military lied about his demise and that he’s a chimera and he’s in love with Zampano because oh, Zampano’s the only one who understands him because Zampano’s also not dead and also a chimera and by the way, this is a princess of the Xing empire and her beau, and is my hair done? Are my dishes washed? Am I wearing anything but a bathrobe? No, of course not.”

                “Ah, come on, sis,” Jerso implored. “I said I was sorry.”

                “Sorry doesn’t stop me from being an accessory to sodomy!” Jill wailed.

                “I don’t think you’re an accessory-” Miles started, but he was struggling not to laugh. Jill was clearly still adjusting to the morning’s revelations, but she was just as clearly spinning a story for the entertainment of her guests.

                “Xing doesn’t have anti-sodomy laws,” May injected. “Lots of emperor’s have had male lovers. There was this one emperor, way back when, whose beau had fallen asleep next to him. The emperor got called away on business, but his beau was laying on his robe. He didn’t want to wake his love, so he cut his robe instead.”

                Scar shot a glance at Miles, and when Miles nodded, Scar added, “Miles and I are a couple.”

                “Figures,” said Jerso and Zampano simultaneously.

                “What?” Scar and Miles asked together, which only caused Jerso and Zampano to roll their eyes.

                “Look at me, I’m Scar,” Jerso teased, doing his best (terrible) imitation of Scar, “I’ve known this soldier for five minutes, and even though he’s my enemy, I’ve told him, oh, what was it? Yes, that I wish there were more people like him in the world.”

                Zampano joined in. “And I’m Major Miles, right hand of the Northern Wall of Briggs. We’re big on security up at Briggs, which is why I’m just going to hand the most wanted man in Amestris a free pass to the fort. Tee hee!”

                “I did not say ‘Tee hee’,” Miles protested. Scar didn’t say anything, but he crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared at the parties involved.

                “It was kind of obvious, is what we’re saying,” Jerso said.

                “What I’m saying is that when we went up to Fort Briggs, we had to strip down to our undergarments before Armstrong would let us in,” Zampano said. 

                “Oh, fine!” Miles said, throwing up his hands.

                Scar uncrossed his arms and looked at May and Al. “Jerso suggested there was something you wanted to tell us.”

                “Oh!” May said. “Al and I got married.”

                “What?” Scar asked, incredulous. “You’re too young for marriage!”

                “I’m seventeen!” May protested.

                “Really?”

                “I’m small for my age,” May squeaked. “Always have been.”

                “We got married in Xing,” Al explained. “I wish Brother could have been there, but I didn’t have a way of reaching him, and I didn’t know how long he was going to be traveling. We always planned to have another ceremony here in Amestris – in Resembool – but we didn’t realize it was going to be so soon.”

                “We’d barely been married when Ed wrote to Al telling him he was coming home,” May added.

                Scar was starting to put the pieces together in his head. “And you’re here rather than in Resembool because…”

                Al put his head in his hands. “Brother doesn’t know yet. It’s not the sort of news you break in a letter, but I don’t know how to tell him in person, either.”

                May put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I’m sure he and Winry will be delighted for us,” she assured him. She turned to Scar. “And you must come to our Resembool wedding.”

                “We’ll be there,” Scar assured her. When lunch had finished, Scar and Miles bid their farewells. They did some campaigning in the neighborhood and then returned to Ishval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The anime gives Jerso a wife, but the manga doesn't, so for the purpose of my fan fic, he's unmarried.


	5. The First Debate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When devising this chapter, I was at first unsure about who to have as the debate moderator. People who run for president tend to have forceful personalities, so any debate monitor is going to have their work cut out for them. Then I remembered Denny and went, "Oh, yes, Denny will do nicely."

                The time came for the first debate. The structure of the debate was that the people of Amestris had submitted questions to the moderator, who had, in turn, came up with a selection of questions to ask the candidates. Tim Marcoh had taken a guess at what the questions might be, and Scar had used the question cards that Marcoh had created to quiz Isaiah on a variety of topics from national security to tax rates. August Cockburn had been largely occupied securing Harold Storch’s temporary release from prison so that he could even attend the debate, but he’d taken a bit of time to coach Storch on being winsome and charismatic. Eric Dunst had taken the duty of preparing Storch for the debate questions themselves. After the third question, Storch had to remind Eric not to clap excitedly any time Storch answered a question because the debate moderator wouldn’t do that. In the cold walls of Briggs, Lance Corporal Kanda fired question after question at Major General Armstrong, who answered them coolly and confidently. In East City, Jean Havoc asked Roy Mustang questions while Mustang rested with his head on Hawkeye’s lap.

                The candidates and their entourages arrived at the debate hall in Central at the designated time. The moderator for the debate was Sergeant Denny Brosch, who taken the job out of a sense of patriotic duty and who had wholly overestimated his ability to wrangle the candidates.

                The debate hall was packed with debate attendees. On the stage, Denny had a podium that put his back to the audience. In front of him, the four candidates stood behind podiums that faced Denny and the audience. Roy Mustang was putting the last finishing touches on his hair before thrusting the comb at Fuery, who hurried off the stage. Olivier Armstrong, who was next to him, gave him a contemptuous glare. Next to her, Isaiah Keystone smiled happily at the crowd, his manner relaxed. On the furthest podium from Mustang, Harold Storch knocked over his water when he attempted to pick it up with handcuffed hands, and Denny indicated for the mess to be hurriedly cleaned up and a new water brought to him.

                “Ladies and gentlemen,” Denny said, and there was some shuffling in the audience. Since his back was to them, his words were somewhat muffled. He gestured to one of the volunteers, who hurried about the room, turning on the radios that had been placed throughout the hall. All of the podiums were set to receive the words of the moderator and the candidates, as the debate would be broadcast all throughout Amestris. When everything had been set up properly, Denny started again. “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the Amestris’ first in a long time presidential debate. Tonight we have with us Brigadier General Roy Mustang, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong, Isaiah Keystone, and Harold Storch. The first question of the night is to Brigadier General Mustang. Mustang, as you are probably aware, some shocking accusations have been made against you in Candidate Storch’s new book I Was Framed: the Authorized Autobiography of Lieutenant Colonel Harold Storch, Who Never Betrayed His Excellency Führer President King Bradley, But Who Was Coerced Into Giving A False Confession By The Traitor Roy Mustang. What do you have to say to these accusations? You have two minutes to answer.”

                Roy smiled winningly at the crowd in the audience before answering. As he formulated his words, he recalled his conversation with Heymans Breda before the debate.

                “Your best bet,” Breda said, “is to dodge all questions related to the Day of Reckoning and Ishval.”

                “But the Ishvalan Reconstruction Project is my biggest accomplishment,” Roy protested.

                “And the only people who care about that are the Ishvalans,” Breda said, “and they’re more likely to vote for the Keystone guy.”

                “Do people really not care?” Roy asked.

                “Fair,” Breda said. “It’s more accurate to say that outside of Ishval, the IRP has a 32% approval rating and a 48% disproval rating, with the rest having no opinion or being undecided.”

                “But rebuilding Ishval was the right thing to do,” Roy insisted.

                “It was,” Breda agreed, “but until almost a year ago, it was an utter drain on tax resources. Now that we’ve got trade going between us and the Xing Empire, Ishval is becoming profitable to Amestris, and that’s starting to change people’s minds. Give it a few years and everyone will insist they supported rebuilding Ishval from the get go. But we’re not there, yet, so you should dance around the topic. The same for Bradley. Everyone thinks that you were a loyalist stopping a coup on the Promised Day. You weren’t, obviously, but you can’t go contradicting yourself by criticizing him now. It’ll make you look two-faced.”

                In the debate hall, Roy Mustang answered the question. “I served Führer President King Bradley faithfully, and it was a tragic day that he and his little son Selim lost their lives.” Mustang made to wipe away a non-existent tear. “I have done everything in my power to live up to his example, and if I become president, I hope that I’m able to be half the man he was.”

                The other candidates all spoke at once.

                “You’re full of shit,” Armstrong sneered.

                “Bradley was a monster, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for emulating him,” Isaiah said firmly.

                “If you want to be half a man, that can be arranged,” shouted Storch. “Just get these handcuffs off me and give me a sword!”

                “Hey, hey!” Denny said, trying to speak over the candidates. “You guys aren’t supposed to speak to one another. Next question! Next question!” The candidates all quieted down to grumblings, and Denny flipped to the next prepared question. “This one is to Isaiah Keystone. It is reported that you were Scar’s master in the priesthood. Scar killed a large number of people. Will you renounce him?”

                “Ezekiel,” Isaiah corrected.

                “What?” asked Denny.

                “My disciple’s name is Ezekiel Keystone. I know he goes by ‘Scar’ informally, but in a debate, you should really use his proper name.”

                “Wait,” Denny said. “Are you two related or something?”

                “He didn’t answer the first question,” protested Storch.

                Isaiah beamed at him. “In a roundabout way, yes. Oh, it’s quit a story. Scar’s father’s father’s mother married a man from a rival family, so the newlyweds were cast out by both of their parents. Still, they were happy because they had each other, and happier still when they had their first child. Alas, tragedy struck, and her husband passed on to Ishvala’s presences due to a sickness. She was left desolate, with a young child to care for and no family to support her. Well, when my great-uncle heard what had transpired, he offered to marry her on the spot, and he legally adopted her son, giving him the family name of ‘Keystone’. And from that tragedy, two families were joined as one.”

                “Now make him answer the other question,” Armstrong insisted.

                “Come on, guys,” Denny pleaded. “I’m the moderator. Let me handle these things. So, um, Mr. Keystone. Do you denounce Sc-, I mean Ezekiel?”

                Isaiah and Marcoh had anticipated this question, and Marcoh factored into the answer. Isaiah could still recall the day they’d first met. Isaiah hadn’t seen his disciple since the day his disciple had slain one bounty hunter, wounded another one, and literally dragged a beaten Yoki out of the camp. Then, out of the blue one day, he’d returned, this time accompanied by a man with a scarred face who his disciple introduced as a former State Alchemist seeking repentance.

                The former State Alchemist had spent the day tending to patients, while Isaiah had spent the day with his disciple, as his disciple explained about the nation-wide alchemy he intended. However, his disciple hadn’t explained much about his traveling companion, so Isaiah had sought him out at the meager dinner they had to eat.

                He found the former State Alchemist sitting on a barrel, and Isaiah took the barrel next to him. They sipped their thin stew next to each other in silence for a bit before the former State Alchemist spoke.

                “You’re Scar’s master, aren’t you?” the former State Alchemist asked finally.

                “I am,” Isaiah said, and then sighed. “I do wish my disciple had kept his name from birth. It was such a lovely name.”

                The former State Alchemist looked down. “I suppose that’s my fault.”

                “Whatever you have done, my disciple’s actions and choices are his own. No one made him cast his name away.”

                “Still,” the former State Alchemist said. “I took his family away from him.” He buried his scarred face in his hand, and Isaiah examined the former State Alchemist. While time could change a person, he was fairly certain the man before him was not the one who’d obliterated Isaiah’s hometown. That State Alchemist had been taller, with a slimmer build. “Did you lose loved ones?” the former State Alchemist asked, looking up. It was clear that he was dreading the answer.  

                “My beloved wife,” Isaiah revealed. “All five of my children, and all nine of my grandchildren. Also, my brother, who’d enlisted in the military years prior and had achieved a noteworthy rank. As best I can tell, his commission was stripped, and he disappeared into one of the internment camps no one ever returned from.”

                The former State Alchemist looked sick. “I know what happened to him.” With brisk, short sentences, the former State Alchemist told Isaiah what he had done. By the end of it, the former State Alchemist was crying, and Isaiah was forcing himself to breathe deeply so as to not allow his anger to control him. There was Ishvala’s peace in his breathing, and he prevented his emotions from ruling him. The former State Alchemist held out his hand, and Isaiah took it. The former State Alchemist bowed his head and pressed Isaiah’s hand to his forehead. “I’m willing to do anything to atone,” he said.

                Isaiah let go of the former State Alchemist’s hand and put his index finger under the former State Alchemist’s chin, lifting his chin until the man met his gaze. “My disciple chose to spare you, yes?”

                “Yes.”

                “That gladdens my heart. As you have chosen to follow my disciple, then this is what I will ask of you. Do good in the world, so that Ishvala will praise my disciple for the mercy he showed you.”

                In the debate hall, this was the story Isaiah told to answer the question. “So you see,” Isaiah concluded, “my disciple, who had erred and strayed from the path of righteousness, found his way again. A State Alchemist, who’d done the unforgiveable, turned from evil and sought atonement. We must not tolerate evil, but if we only renounce those who have done wrong, there will be no room for healing. He indicated Mustang with a nod of his head. “That man slew many of my countrymen, but now he works to help aid our rebuilding. I renounce his praises of Bradley, but if I become president, I will need to work with him for the good of this country.”

                “That’s, um, that’s a really touching story,” Denny said when Isaiah finally finished, “but I’ll ask everyone again to stay within the two minute time limit. You were over by six minutes.”

                “I’ll endeavor to keep that in mind,” Isaiah assured him.

                “Thanks,” Denny said. “The next question is for Major General Armstrong. Keeping the time limit in mind, please answer the following question: Do you think that you, as a woman, would be able get men to do as you want if you become president?”

                “That’s a stupid question,” Armstrong said promptly. “I won’t dignify it with an answer.”

                “But you have to answer!” Denny wailed.

                Armstrong leaned forward on her podium, resting on her forearms. “And what will you do if I don’t?”

                “I’ll… I’ll…” Denny’s body deflated. “I’ll move on to the next candidate.”

                “Then you have your answer,” Armstrong said, radiating self-confidence.

                “Next question is for Harold Storch,” said Denny. “Your campaign platform includes promises to execute, well, all of your opponents.”

                “And I promise to be the type of politician who keeps his campaign promises,” Storch told him winningly.

                “Any day, any time,” Armstrong told him.

                “Just get these handcuffs off me,” Storch said.

                “Only fools fight fair,” Armstrong sneered.

                “Candidates, please!” Denny implored. “To finish the question: Mr. Storch, have you consider the impact of executing your political opponents should you win will have on our fledgling democracy?”

                “I have,” Storch assured him, giving the audience a thousand watt smile. “You see, if I win, there won’t be any further elections. I intend to declare myself absolute ruler. But you know what, Sergeant? I promise to be the best absolute ruler this country has had since Bradley himself!”

                Denny tried not to groan too loudly as he fumbled for the next question. It was going to be a long hour of debating.


	6. All The People You Wronged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are starting with this fan fic in the series, the Dental Alchemist is intended to be one of the unnamed State Alchemists that Scar killed off page.

                The morning after the first presidential debate of the campaign, Miles awoke to find Scar’s place in the bed next to him empty. In the kitchen, there was a note from Scar telling Miles that’d he gone down to the river to think. It was still early, with the sun’s first rays only just beginning to come up over the horizon. Adva was having a sleepover at a friend’s house, whose parent had promised to see her off to school in the morning, so Miles dressed and headed toward the river.

                New Ishval, like all cities past and present in the desert area, was built on a water source. That said, the Great River wasn’t much of a river by any objective standard. It was more of a stream or – in the driest seasons – a trickle of a creek. Scar was sitting on the bank and letting the water lap over his bare feet. Miles slipped off his shoes.

                “I’m not like him,” Scar said, when Miles sat down beside him.

                “Who?”

                “The Flame Alchemist,” Scar spat. He and Miles had listened to the first presidential debate on the radio, and Miles recalled now how Scar had stiffened when Master Isaiah had answered his first question.

                “Of course you aren’t,” Miles assured him.

                “We’ve both taken the lives of the innocent,” Scar muttered. “And we were both pardoned by Grumman.”

                “Sure, but,” Miles started, floundering for words to express his feelings. “It’s a matter of scale,” he finished finally.

                “Is that what I’m going to tell Ishvala, when I stand before him in all his glory on my day of judgement?” Scar asked.

                “You want to make amends to Winry Rockbell?” Miles asked.

                “No just her,” Scar said. He reached into his robes and withdrew a sheet of paper. “I made a list, this morning.” He handed it to Miles.

                Miles skimmed through the list. “So this is, what, all the people you wronged?”

                Scar nodded. “Will you help me?”

                “Of course,” Miles answered. Two of the names on the list were two Briggs soldiers Scar had knocked out and robbed when traveling North for the purpose of retrieving his brother’s alchemy research notes. He had shown restrain at the time, not killing them, but he had knocked them out and robbed him nonetheless. His desire to talk to them intensified after Miles made some phone calls and discovered that the soldiers were both stationed in Ishval. Scar and Miles located them after dinner one evening.

                The two men snapped smart salutes when Miles entered. Scar realized that he’d probably run into them multiple times in the past, if they were stationed in Ishval.

                “I came here to apologize,” Scar said. “I knocked you out and robbed you. It was in the service of noble goals, but the Briggs soldiers have done great service in helping to rebuild this land.”

                The soldiers looked at each other uneasily, then at Scar and Miles in turn. Their names, Miles had informed him, were Brock and Beige. Scar wondered if his apology had been too unwieldy, with too many stipulations and specifications.

                “No need to apologize, mister,” said Brock.

                “Right. There’s no foul in striking an enemy in combat,” said Beige. “Not that you’re our enemy now, of course, but you were at the time.”

                “And our queen would have our hides if she heard of us blaming an adversary for our own incompetence,” they both said together.

                “Was she hard on you?” Scar asked.

                Both men nodded. “We were scraping icicles for ages,” said Beige.

                “But that’s not on you,” Brock assured him. “There are no hard feelings.”

                “None at all,” agreed Beige.

                Scar nodded. “Thank you. What made you decide to serve in Isvhal?”

                “No icicles in Ishval, mister!” both men said together.

                Scar and Miles both took temporary leave from their jobs, and set out on a multi-day tour of Amestris. Their first stop after leaving brought them to an apartment in a neighborhood Miles had never been to before. He waited in the street while Scar knocked on the door. A middle aged blonde woman answered.

                “Hello?” she asked. She saw who her visitor was. “What do you want?”

                “Please, wait,” Scar said. “May I come in? I mean you no harm.”

                “Uh, sure,” she said, stepping aside to allow him to enter. It was a modest apartment. She offered him lemonade and snacks. He declined.

                “I won’t tarry long,” he said. “I came to apologize. Several years prior, I had a fight with the Fullmetal Alchemist on this street, and my actions endangered you. I was reckless and in the wrong. I’m sorry.”

                There was a long silence. “Oh,” said the woman. Another long silence. “Did I give you my name?”

                “No, ma’am,” Scar said.

                “Violet Featherstonhaugh,” she said. “May I ask a question?”

                “Go ahead,” said Scar.

                “Why were you fighting that boy?”

                Scar closed his eyes. “He was recruiting alchemist into the State Alchemist program. Great harm could have come of his actions.”

                “And you’re Ishvalan,” Ms Featherstonhaugh said.

                “I am,” Scar said.

                Ms Featherstonhaugh folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could have been able to do more,” she said. “Everyone knew terrible things were happening, but everyone was afraid to do anything about it. Everyone was afraid to even talk about it. I believe I owe you an apology, as well.”

                “The people who ran this country,” Scar started, before switching track. “I tried to fight, to do something. I errored. Quite often. There are many things that I regret.”

                “Do you regret fighting that boy?”

                Scar shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I am not sure. It was not right that a boy that young be in the State Alchemist program.”

                “Wrongs piled upon wrongs,” said Ms Featherstonhaugh. “That about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

                “It does. Now that same boy is engaged to a girl who I wronged mostly grievously and who also gave my daughter her automail. And his younger brother just married another girl who helped me through dark times.”

                Ms Featherstonhaugh gave a tinkling laugh. “Now isn’t that something!”

                “It is,” Scar said. “I should be going. Thank you for allowing me to speak to you.”

                “Thank you for stopping by,” Ms Featherstonhaugh. “I wish you the best on your journey.”

                After leaving the residence of Ms Featherstonhaugh, Scar and Miles did not leave the block right away. Scar had endangered everyone in the area during his fight with Edward Elric, so he paid them each visit in turn. After that, they visited other neighborhoods in other areas, making apologies and crossing names off of his list.

                The following day, however, brought them to a house in one of the nicer areas of Central City. Scar explained to Miles that it belonged to the granddaughter of the Silver Alchemist.

                “You regret killing him?” Miles asked, surprised.

                “No,” Scar said. “But the woman who lives here still lost her grandfather. I should at least visit.”

                They walked up to the house. The granddaughter answered it. She took one look at Scar, and slammed the door in his face. He knocked again.

                “Ms Comanche?” Scar called.

                “Go away, you monster!” Ms Comanche screamed from the other side of the door. “Or I shall call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

                Miles gently put a hand on Scar’s shoulder. “We should go.”

                “Okay,” Scar said. He looked at his list, hesitating.

                “Here,” Miles said. He took the pen from Scar and crossed off Ms Comanche’s name. “You tried.”

                “Okay,” Scar said again.

                It was for this reason that Scar had low expectations when they visited the home of the sister of the Dental Alchemist. To his surprise, however, she invited Scar and Miles in for tea.

                “I’m Margaret Harlow,” she said. “One sugar or two?” She served the tea and then said. “What brings you to my home? I can’t say I’m not surprised.”

                “I came to apologize,” Scar said.

                “For my brother’s murder?” Mrs. Harlow looked down at her hands.

                “For any pain you might have suffered because of his death,” Scar said.

                Mrs. Harlow bit her lip. “My brother wasn’t a nice person. Even when we were kids, he was a real jerk.” She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “Huh, jerk. That’s rather underselling it, isn’t it? I read what he did to those poor people.” She hesitated before saying more. “I can’t say it didn’t hurt when I found out he was dead – he was my brother and all – but the worst pain was being related to someone like him. I’ve got feelings I haven’t really been able to process.”

                “Sometimes I fear that’s how my master feels about me,” Scar said. “But I… what could I have done differently?”

                “Yeah,” Mrs. Harlow said. “It’s not like you could have had him arrested. Not then. God, this country’s so messed up.” She reached out and squeezed Scar’s hand. “Thank you for coming to see me. I’m glad that I got a chance to talk to you.”

                The next name on the list required Miles to make some phone calls, and he initially didn’t understand why Scar wanted to visit the grave of someone named Nina Tucker. Scar explained what had transpired as he laid a stone on the ground before the gravestone.

                “I didn’t know,” Scar said, staring at his feet. “I never dreamed that Bradley would fall, that Ishval would be rebuilt. Maybe Marcoh could have fixed her. Even if not, she would have been welcomed in our lands.”

                Miles put a comforting hand on Scar’s shoulder. “Hey, man, it’s okay.” He gave Scar’s should a light squeeze. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

                Scar clenched and unclenched his fists and then struck the name off his list.

                The next name on the list wasn’t for someone Scar could visit in person, either, so his conversation with Mrs. Bradley was undertaken over the phone. Miles pulled some strings for him to be put through.

                “Hello,” Scar said.

                “Who is this?” came Mrs. Bradley’s voice on the other side of the phone.

                “Ezekiel Keystone,” Scar said. “Scar. I’m the one who killed your husband.”

                “Why are you calling?” Mrs. Bradley asked.

                “Your husband wasn’t a good man-” Scar began, but Mrs. Bradley cut him off.

                “My husband was a wonderful man,” Mrs. Bradley protested, “and a great ruler.”

                Scar stared at a phone in confusion. “He ordered the extermination of my people.”

                “Agitator propaganda,” Mrs. Bradley countered. “The only people who died were those that my husband absolutely had to kill. He always put the good of the country first.”

                Scar abruptly hung up the phone. He looked Miles. “Does she really not know?” he asked.

                Miles shrugged. “People know what they want to know sometimes. Trust me, she’s not the only member of the elite lying to themselves.”

                Scar struck the name from the list. “Not many names left now.”

                “Next stop, Resembool?” Miles asked. Winry spent part of her time in Ishval providing automail to those who needed it, but they had thought she was at Rush Valley at the moment. However, when they had called Garfiel’s shop, they had learned that Winry was visiting her grandmother Pinako. With May and Al’s impending Amestris nuptials, Scar suspected he’d find the younger Elric brother there, as well.

                Scar nodded. This was the one he was dreading the most because of everything he’d done, the death of the Rockbells at his hands haunted him the greatest. Scar tried to force his muscles to relax as the train pulled into Resembool, but he was tense the entire time it took to walk to the Rockbell residence. Scar knocked on the door. It was opened by May, who squealed “Mr. Scar” and threw her arms around his midsection in a hug.

                “Hello,” Scar said. “Is Winry Rockbell home?”

                Winry was coming to the door as Scar spoke. “Hello,” she said. “Is everything all right with Adva’s leg? She’s not having any pain, is she?”

                Scar shook his head. “No, her recovery is going smoothly. You did an exceptional job. I just wanted to talk to you, and to the Elric brothers.”

                “Come in, then,” Winry said. Scar and Miles filed in after her, and they took a seat in the living room. Al and May sat as close as possible together on one couch. Winry took a chair, and Ed leaned against a wall. Scar and Miles found an open place on the couch and sat down.

                “Yo, Major,” Ed said and then soured. “And Scar.”

                “It’s actually Colonel, now,” Miles said. Ed had only just recently returned to Amestris.

                “Congrats on the promotion,” Ed said. “Now what does _he_ want?”

                “To apologize,” Scar said. “Properly, for my actions against you and your brother, and to Winry for her parent’s deaths.”

                “Oh, yeah-” Ed said.

                “Apology accepted,” Al said at the same time.

                “What?” Ed asked, turning to his brother.

                “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, Brother, but Scar’s very important to May. If he wants to bury the hatchet, I don’t want any clouds hanging over our future.”

                “What does your girlfriend have to do with it?” Ed demanded.

                “She’s not my girlfriend,” Al protested before going scarlet.

                “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ed asked.

                “Oh boy,” Miles said very quietly. “He still doesn’t know.”

                “Not our place,” Scar muttered back.

                “If you’re here to make amends,” Winry said, “answer me this: why did you kill my parents?”

                “I told you before,” Scar said, “I won’t make excuses for my actions.”

                “Well, I want an explanation,” Winry said firmly.

                “But-”

                “I’ve seen you with little Adva. I’ve heard how everyone in Ishval talks about you. You’re not the kind of man to- Just tell me why!”

                “Fine! I thought they were the enemy! I…I was confused.”

                “It was after you lost your family, wasn’t it?”

                Scar looked down. “Yes. I lashed out in anger and slew them before I realized they were just…doctors.”

                “Not guilty by reasons of temporary insanity,” Winry said softly. “I heard that from Mistress Shan, about your trial. I’d…I’d put together most of the pieces myself, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

                “That doesn’t change what I did,” Scar said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

                “Okay,” Winry said softly. “Apology accepted.”

                “Not good enough for me,” Ed said.

                “Ed, it’s my apology to accept or reject,” Winry said.

                “What is that you want?” Scar asked him.

                “For you to pay respects at their graves,” Ed said. “Their remains were recovered. They’re buried here.”

                “Okay,” Scar said. He stood up. “Is now a good time?”

                Ed led the way, as he, Winry, Scar, Miles, Al, and May headed to the gravesite of the Rockbells. Scar stared forlornly at the two graves in front of him.

                “I didn’t bring any stones,” he said. He crouched down and gently touched the dirt, and everyone closed their eyes at the same time for a moment of silence. Nevertheless, they all perceived the sudden flash of light. Scar’s eyes snapped open, and he saw that the party was no long alone. There were two men gawking at them. One had a pad of paper and a pencil. The other, who’d just taken the picture, was holding a camera. “Oh, them,” he swore.

                “Whose grave is this?” asked the reporter. He thrust his way into the group and scribbled down _Yuriy Rockbell_ and _Sarah Rockbell_. “I’m Trevor Chaucer from the Eclipsed Sun, pleasure to meet you all.”

                “Go away,” Scar snarled. “This is private moment.”

                “Look!” said the cameraman. “It’s the Fullmetal Alchemist. And isn’t that Colonel Miles?”

                “I’m actually not an alchemist anymore,” Ed said, at a loss of how to deal with the two intruders.

                “Can I get a quote from you?” the report asked, eagerly, stepping on Yuriy Rockbell’s grave in order to force himself into Scar’s personal space. “I pulled your records, after the Flame Alchemist’s trial. Weren’t you the one who killed the Rockbells? What are you doing at their graves? Ooo, are you planning to desecrate them?”

                “No,” Scar said through gritted teeth.

                “I have a story for you,” May piped up. Chaucer looked around, and eventually, after he looked down a bit, he located May. She had grown some from when she had traveled with Scar, but she was still a few inches shorter than Winry. 

                “What is it you want, little girl?”

                “I’m seventeen,” May protested. “I’m not a little girl.”

                “That’s not much of a story,” Chaucer said dubiously.

                “Forget about that,” May said. “I’m Princess May Chang of the Xing Empire. I’d like to announce my marriage to Alphonse Elric. We were formerly wed in a ceremony in Xing last month. The emperor himself was in attendance. That’s my brother Ling Yao, you know? Why don’t you follow me over _here_ , and I’ll give you all the details.”

                As May led the reporter and the cameraman away, Ed glared daggers at his younger brother. “You did _what_?”

                “We were going to tell you, Brother!”

                “How could you not invite me?” Ed demanded.

                “You’ll get to go to the Resembool ceremony, won’t you?” Scar cut in, coming to Al’s defense.

                “The Resembool ceremony? Wait, you know about this?”

                “Yes,” Scar said.

                “Why don’t I go be with my wife?” Al suggested. “I bet the cameraman will want to take our picture together.”

                “No! Come back here!” Ed stomped after his brother, leaving Winry, Scar, and Miles alone.

                Winry reach out for Scar’s hand, and he allowed her to take it. “I’m sorry about your family,” she said. She squeezed his hand gently.

                Scar looked away. “The deaths of my family don’t justify me taking yours.”

                Winry nodded. “I know. And I’ll never not miss them. But you’re important to May, and she is apparently the wife of my soon-to-be brother-in-law. So let’s just…try. Let’s all try to move forward together.” She let go of Scar’s hand to wipe a tear from her eye. Miles stepped forward and put his arm comfortingly around her shoulders. In the distance, Ed screamed at his brother, while the cameraman took pictures and the reporter attempted to jot down as many of the obscenities as possible. Winry invited Scar and Miles to dinner, and later, after they were heading home to New Ishval, Scar crossed the final names off of his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was initially devising this chapter, I wasn't going to have Scar tell Winry why he killed her parents. Then I realize that as I had her working in Ishval, she would have probably figured much of it out on her own.


	7. Guillaume Ignace Armstrong

                Guillaume Ignace Armstrong was the first cousin of Philip Gargantos Armstrong. Being from a younger branch of the family, his inheritance hadn’t been significant. However, as a young man, Guillaume’s cousin Philip had given him a generous loan. Guillaume had invested in overly partitioned Cretan land, which Guillaume had then consolidated to a considerable profit. His fortune made, Guillaume nevertheless never passed up an opportunity to increase his wealth, which is how he found himself at the Holy Temple in the city of New Ishval one day between the first and second presidential debates. He was meeting there with religious leader and presidential candidate Isaiah Keystone.

                The two men were walking through the gardens that existed behind the Holy Temple. There were low walls of stone, footpaths of brick, and sandstone pipes feeding in water. Everywhere there were plants that bore fruit or could be used in tea or had medicinal properties.

                Isaiah gestured to one of the sandstone pipes. “The water comes all the way from Mt. Briggs. Additionally, we have wells that tap into the local river. These are two things that I’m afraid that the Salt Dunes don’t have.”

                “But they could have them,” Guillaume pointed out.

                “Not the wells,” Isaiah said.

                “Couldn’t you reroute the river?” Guillaume suggested. “Ishval has some wonderful alchemists nowadays I hear, and if not, there are those in other parts of Amestris whose talents could be rented.”

                “That would be a massive undertaking,” Isaiah said. “And it wouldn’t change the fact that the Salt Dunes are, well, covered in salt. You’d never be able to grow anything there.”

                “You could order the salt removed,” Guillaume said.

                “No, I’m afraid that you’re mistaken there,” Isaiah said gently. “I can’t order any such thing. I’m only a priest. I have authority over the temple and my sign language classes and the orphanage. I advise against the project on grounds of feasibility, but for such an undertaking, you’d need the approval of Colonel Miles and Brigadier General Mustang.”

                “You’d have the authority if you were elected president,” Guillaume suggested slyly.

                “And if I am,” Isaiah said firmly, “I’d nix the project you’re proposing on the grounds of it being foolhardy.”

                The next presidential candidate to entertain Guillaume was Roy Mustang. They met in Roy’s office in East City. Of Roy’s usual team, only Breda was present. Riza was doing paperwork in a different room, Havoc was at his physical therapy, and Fuery was out campaigning with Ross.

                “How can I help you, Mr. Armstrong?” Roy asked.

                “Please, call me Guillaume,” Guillaume insisted, pumping Roy’s hand. “I do hope you had an opportunity to look over the business proposal I had sent to you.”

                “Got it here,” Breda said, flipping through it.

                “Well, my good gentlemen, what do you think?”

                “I’m skeptical,” Roy said. “I’m not a farmer, but I’m pretty sure you can’t grow rice in dunes made of salt.”

                “All taken into account,” Guillaume assured him.

                “Ah, yes, if I read your proposal right, you want to lend the local government of Ishval money for the project, to be paid back at, what was the interest rate, Breda?”

                “4%,” Breda answered, “in the first year. Then it doubles to 8% in the second year, 16% in the third year, 32% in the fourth year, and finally caps at 64% in the fifth year. The time table given for the project is that it would take ten years to complete.”

                Roy made his hands into a steeple. “So five years before the project would be expected to be completed, the local Ishvalan government would owe you payments on the money they borrowed, plus the usury?”

                Guillaume waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve got to protect my investments, don’t I? Besides, it’s not like they’d be expected to start repaying the money after the fifth year, now is it?”

                “Actually, sir,” Breda said, “that’s what’s stated in the proposal you provided us.”

                “So what happens if the project fails?” Roy asked.

                “We don’t need to worry about that,” Guillaume assured him. “The project is a guaranteed success. The Ishvalans are going to make so much money that they’ll have no trouble paying me back. The Ishvalans are going to be rich. I’m going to be rich. It’s win-win all around.”

                “Humor me.”

                “Oh, well, if we’re talking absolute worst case, never-going-to-happen scenarios,” said Guillaume, “I’m always more than happy to negotiate with my debtors. There’s always some form of repayment that can be worked out.”

                “Meaning?”

                “Well, I’ve got some factories in the South, and, well, I hate to ever speak ill of poor old Bradley, but being at war with all our neighbors isn’t conductive to having a steady influx of workers. In my experience, Ishvalans work just as hard as Aerugans, and they aren’t as uppity about the wages.”

                “In this worst case, never-going-to-happen scenario you’ve clearly given some thought to, how do you propose to enforce the agreement? How do you know the Ishvalans won’t simply stiff you on the payment?”

                Guillaume lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Well, I know I can count on the Flame Alchemist to turn up the heat if needed. Especially if you’re President Flame Alchemist, am I right? I’d be more than happy to make a generous donation to your campaign to get you there.”

                “Mr. Armstrong, are you suggesting another Order #306?” Roy asked, aghast, anger rising in him.

                Guillaume waved both hands dismissively, “Of course not! I loved Bradley, but he was off the mark on that one. Dead men make poor workers, after all. I’m just saying that you can provide a bit of encouragement. A few burns there, maybe an incineration here, and the rest will fall in line.”

                “This conversation is over,” Roy said.

                “But-”

                “Have a nice day.”

                “Should I write you a check?”

                “I don’t want your money,” Roy seethed. “Now get out of my office before I have you escorted out.”

                “Fine,” Guillaume said. Turning on his heel, he stormed out. Outside of the government buildings, he placed a call on the payphone. Then he headed to the train station, where he bought a ticket to the North.

                Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong might have been related to Guillaume by blood, but she gave his proposal only a cursory glance before tossing it into the fire.

                “Hey!” exclaimed Guillaume, fishing his business proposal out with a poker before it could burn up. “What was that for?”

                “It’s a vicious plan, and you’re a weasel,” Olivier said curtly.

                “Now, come on, Olive,” Guillaume wheedled, “is that anyway to talk to family?”

                “Yes.”

                “Your running for president, aren’t you?” Guillaume pressed. “It sure would do my heart good to see an Armstrong in the president’s office again.” Three presidents before Bradley, the head of state of Amestris had been from the Armstrong family. Guillaume continued, “Better you than that awful Mustang man.”

                “Well, then, we agree on one thing,” Olivier said. “Now please be on your way.” She touched the arm of her aide, Naomi Kanda, and Lance Corporal Kanda left the room.

                “So cold, Olive?” Guillaume asked. “I barely just got here, and I traveled such a long way.”

                “This is a fort, not a hotel,” Olivier said firmly.

                “Fine, fine,” Guillaume conceded. “Just let me get my coat, and I’ll be on my way.”

                Olivier watched her father’s cousin leave. Unlike him, she knew the attack was coming and so knew where to look. So it was that she saw Lance Corporal Kanda drop onto Guillaume from a walkway above him, dagger drawn.

                Guillaume did the family name pride. He flung Kanda off of him, taking only a cut to the arm in the process. She’d barely hit the ground when he had taken out a bundled handkerchief covered in alchemic symbols. He unfurled it toward Kanda, and the pebbles that had been contained within the handkerchief flew toward her, sharpening into points as they did. She cried out as she sustained several deep cuts.

                “Halt,” Olivier called. Despite the pain, Kanda stood to attention, saluting. Guillaume looked at Olivier furiously.

                “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Why did your damn aide attack me like that??”

                “There are rumors that Drachma has been training alchemists,” Olivier said, which was true enough. “I wanted Lance Corporal Kanda to have a chance to fight an alchemist under realistic conditions. Our family is famed for our alchemy, so what better opponent could she have?”

                Guillaume seethed. “You could have asked me first!”

                “Then it wouldn’t have been realistic conditions,” Olivier said smoothly. “Come now, let’s get you and my aide to the infirmary to get your wounds treated. Then I’ll see you on your way, Cousin.”

                Olivier and Lance Corporal Kanda convened in Olivier’s office after Guillaume had been sent back down the mountain.

                “Well, sir?” Kanda asked.

                “You’re dead,” Olivier said calmly. “Mustang’s flames hit a lot harder than my cousin’s pebbles.”

                “Yes, sir,” Kanda said evenly.

                “But if it was Mustang, he’d be dead, too. You nicked Guillaume with your dagger before he threw you off. Hand it been actually poisoned, he would have succumbed to his wounds even though he won the fight.”

                “Yes, sir,” said Kanda.

                “Mustang is younger than Guillaume, so expect him to be faster. And he has military training.”

                “Am I ready to face him, sir?” Kanda asked.

                Olivier nodded. “After the second debate. You’ll have your chance to avenge your family then.”

                “Thank you, sir,” Kanda said.

                The last presidential candidate that Guillaume visited was Harold Storch. They met in a booth in the prison visitation room, a wall of glass with holes in it separating them. In Guillaume’s lap was Storch’s generously titled book, which Guillaume had skimmed through during the train ride back south.

                “How do you do, Mr. Storch?” Guillaume began. “I’m Guillaume Armstrong. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at that gala about five years back. Oh, those were the days, weren’t they?”

                “Were you the one who juggled those weasels?”

                “Yes, sir-ee,” said Guillaume, “the art of weasel juggling is one that’s been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations.”

                “It was very impressive,” Storch said neutrally. “What brings you to my humble adobe this fine evening?”

                “It’s barely two o’clock, actually.”

                “It’s hard to keep track of the time in here,” Storch admitted.

                “That’s why I’m here, in fact,” Guillaume said. “It does my heart sore to see a fine man such as yourself locked up behind bars, particularly when he’s seeking higher office. What happens if you win? Do they expect you to give out directives through a sheet of glass?”

                “Yes, that is a problem, isn’t it?” Storch said.

                “What if I could get you out?” Guillaume asked.

                Storch studied him for a moment before speaking. “The Armstrongs are a resourceful family, but isn’t one of your cousins running against me?”

                “Oh, her!” Guillaume said. He indicated to his bandaged arm. “Just you look at what that little Ishvalan aide of hers did to my arm! On her orders, too!”

                “You angered the Northern Wall of Briggs, then?”

                “No, it was a training exercise!” Guillaume spat.

                “Well, then,” Storch said. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? What do you want?”

                “Ishval,” Guillaume said simply.

                “In what sense?”

                “I know it’s a desert, but it’s not totally void of resources that can be sold. And the Ishvalans have the potential to make the best laborers, if I’m free to treat them and pay them as I wish,” Guillaume said baldly.

                Storch frowned. “I intend to crush Ishval in King Bradley’s memory.”

                “There’s lots of ways to crush a region,” Guillaume protested. “My way will just make me a lot of money in the process.”  

                “My supporters might not see it that way,” Storch said dubiously. “They want blood. Ishvalan agitators were involved in the events of that horrible day when we lost everything.”

                “Some executions will no doubt be necessary,” Guillaume assured him. “We can do ‘em on Bradley’s birthday and what not. Make it a big celebration. The slowest workers to the firing wall and all that good stuff.”

                “Fine,” Storch said. “If you get me out of here, then when I become president, Ishval will be yours.”

                “You have yourself a deal, then,” Guillaume said. “I wish we could shake on it, but that’ll have to wait until after you’re a free man, now won’t it?”

                It didn’t take long for Guillaume to arrange a meeting with Grumman. The Armstrong family carried a lot of weight.

                “My beloved Führer!” Guillaume greeted boomingly, wrapping Grumman in a bear hug.

                “Not for much longer,” Grumman chuckled, squirming out of the hug. “How the family?”

                “Wonderful as always,” Guillaume assured him. “That’s partially why I came. You know that my cousin’s one of the candidates, of course.”

                Grumman wagged a finger at him. “Now, now, I can’t play favorites. We’re a democracy now.”

                “I completely agree,” Guillaume assured him. “I know that Little Olive would be aghast if she won unfairly.”

                “She’s very honorable,” Grumman agreed.

                “Then why is it that one of her opponents is incarcerated?” Guillaume asked.

                “He attempted to stage a coup against my predecessor,” Grumman lied smoothly. “Thank goodness that Mustang was able to restore order.”

                “Yes, yes,” Guillaume agreed. “That was a tragic affair. Still, Storch has his supporters. We both know that Storch is going to lose, but it’ll be better for the country if he doesn’t lose while behind bars. We don’t want anyone thinking the election wasn’t fair, now do we?”

                “You make a fine point,” Grumman agreed. “I’ll look into getting his sentence commuted. Hopefully, that’ll stop his damnable supporters from marching through the streets every other day.”

                Guillaume bid his good-byes, and two days later, he met Storch outside of the prison in Central City to properly shake the presidential candidate’s hand.


	8. The Second Debate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heinkel got to be on the jury in The Trial of the Flame Alchemist, so Darius gets to be debate moderator here. I figured that time in the circus would have an impact on both Heinkel and Darius and so tried to reflect that.

                After the first debate, Sergeant Denny Brosch point blank refused to return as moderator. Instead, Darius of the Circus Animalis Animus volunteered to take up duties for the second debate. When the night of the second debate came, the candidates filed into and took up their places behind their podiums, Harold Storch smirking at not being in handcuffs this time.

                “Testing, testing one two,” Darius said, making sure that the radio broadcast system was working. After the first debate, the moderator podium had been moved off to the side, so that the audience and the candidates could both hear the moderator equally. Nevertheless, the debate was still being broadcast to the country as a whole. When Darius was confident that the equipment was working, he projected his voice – a talent he’d learned in his past few years in the circus – and addressed the ensemble. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the second presidential debate. Tonight’s debate will be in the form of short answer. There will be a prompt, and then each candidate will be given two minutes to speak on the topic. Isaiah Keystone will start with the first prompt, which is the Partible Inheritance Act.”

                “As president, I will champion the Partible Inheritance Act being over turned,” Isaiah said. “The laws of this country need to apply to all people equally, not separate polytheists from monotheists.”

                “What would you replace it with?” Olivier asked.

                “I don’t think we’re supposed to ask each other questions,” Isaiah parried. “Moderator?”

                Darius shrugged. “Well, since we’re doing democracy, I say we let the lovely folks in the audience decide. Okay, folks, if you’re against the candidates asking each other questions, I want you to cheer as loud as possible. Go!” There were a few half-hearted cheers from the audience, but mostly they seemed unsure of what to do. Darius beamed and moved on. “Now let’s hear it from those who think the candidates should be allowed to ask each other questions. Come on, folks, give it your best!” The cheers were louder this time, as the crowd was beginning to catch on to what was being asked of them. “Well, there you have it. Mr. Keystone, please respond to Major General Armstrong’s question.”

                “Doing away with the Partible Inheritance Act would mean that the existing laws would apply to polytheists,” Isaiah said. “That would work toward the goal of equality.”

                “Not total equality,” Olivier said.

                Isaiah nodded. “You are correct. The existing laws – barring exceptions decided at the whim of the family head - still show favoritism, both along gender lines and by age. That would also need to be addressed.”

                “It’s more than that,” Olivier said. “There are a great many rich men in this country who have gained their wealth from the Partible Inheritance Act. My cousin Guillaume is one. To simply overturn unfair laws would do nothing to address the consequences that have long come from those laws.”

                “What do you propose?” Isaiah said.

                “That those – such as my cousin – who have profited from land stolen through unjust laws be made to make repayments.”

                “Not one of your favorite cousins, I’m guessing?” asked Darius.

                Olivier snorted. “It’s not about like or dislike. A ruler must be impartial. Family connections can’t be allowed to influence ones decisions.”

                “Fair enough,” said Darius. “We’ve heard from Mr. Keystone and Major General Armstrong – unless they have anything to add? No? – okay, then let’s hear from Brigadier General Mustang.”

                “Yes,” Roy said. “The Partible Inheritance Act.” He smiled winsomely at the crowd. The Partible Inheritance Act hadn’t been included in his debate prep, and he was blanking on the specifics of the law. He had gathered roughly what the law was about from the responses of his opponents, but it would only make him look like a weak candidate if he simply echoed what they had to say. Still, he could hardly say nothing. “The Partible Inheritance Act is part of the great traditions of Amestris. As we move forward as a country, we must come together and not think of ourselves as monotheists or polytheists but as Amestrians. That’s how we’ll be able to forge a better future for ourselves – and for our children.”

                “You didn’t answer the question,” Olivier said.

                “That’s not a question,” Roy said smartly. “So why don’t we hear from Mr. Storch, hm? What does he think of the Partible Inheritance Act?”

                “Hey!” Darius said. “I’m the moderator. Mr. Storch, what do you think of the Partible Inheritance Act?”

                “Under my rule, it won’t matter,” Storch said promptly. “In the New Amestris that I wish to create, only pure-blooded Amestrians will be allowed to own property.”

                “What about the non-pure-blooded Amestrians who currently own property?” Darius asked with morbid curiosity.

                “It will be stripped of them and given to pure-blooded Amestrians, with priority given to my supporters,” Storch explained. “Preference will also be given to the military and especially State Alchemists, of course, as they’ll be needed to ensure my rule.”

                “Why are you out of prison?” Roy asked rhetorically.

                Storch answered him anyway. “Because a cell is no place for a great ruler such as myself!”

                The second presidential debate continued as the clocked ticked down the hour. Unlike Brosch, Darius was more wont to let the candidates do as they pleased, provided it pleased the audience. It might have been circus, but, hey, Darius didn’t consider that to be a bad thing. He only intervened once, and that was to stop Storch from actually strangling Roy after a debate prompt on the marginal tax rate.

                “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Darius said as the hour drew near a close, “we arrive now at the second to last prompt. Storch will take the lead on this one. If you could only choose one thing, what improvement would you make to our great country?”

                “I’d execute Roy Mustang,” Storch said promptly.

                “You consider that to be an improvement?” Roy seethed.

                “I don’t know,” Olivier said. “I think he has a point.”

                “Surely there are other, more pressing concerns,” Isaiah implored.

                Storch folded his arms in front of his chest stubbornly. He jerked his head at Roy. “That man, with only a handful of subordinates, overthrew the government, destroyed everything our great leader had been working toward, and framed those loyal to King Bradley as traitors. He’s dangerous.”

                “I suppose the voters will be the ones to decide on your priorities,” Darius said, giving Storch the side-eye. “Mr. Keystone? It’s your turn.”

                “I haven’t been able to see as much as Amestris as I would like,” Isaiah began. “I’ve visited Central, as I’m doing today, and lived in both East City and Ishval. However, my disciple Ezekiel traveled all across the country, and what he has told me is that we Ishvalans were not the only ones to suffer under the previous regime. There is poverty and want everywhere. That’s what I hope to alleviate as president.”

                “Major General Armstrong?”

                “We know virtually nothing of the purification arts practiced in the Xing Empire,” Olivier said. “This country doesn’t need any more State Alchemist, but we could do much to expand our knowledge base, both in the defense of this country and for civilian uses.”

                “Brigadier General Mustang?”

                “Higher base pay for soldiers,” Roy said without hesitation. “Better benefits for veterans, especially those who have been injured.”

                “Tell me about it,” Darius muttered.

                Roy continued. “This country has long chewed soldiers up and spat them out again without any regard to their wellbeing. Our young men and women have sacrificed so much for this country; they deserve to be treated better.”

                “Last prompt,” said Darius. “What do you consider to be the greatest threat to our country? Mr. Keystone has the lead.”

                “Our divisiveness,” Isaiah said, looking pointedly at Storch. “We’re different races and different religions, but we’ll be strongest if we recognize that we’re all in this together.”

                “Major General Armstrong?”

                “Bradley is dead,” Olivier began, “but much of the government is the same individuals that were there during the previous regime. For this country to move forward, there needs to be an accounting.”

                “Hey!” Roy protested, “I stood trial!”

                “And were pardoned because the Führer President was your mentor and also the grandfather of your lover,” Olivier shot back.

                “Grumman wasn’t one of those trying to sacrifice the whole country!” Roy shouted.

                “No, just the Ishvalan part,” Olivier retorted. “Grumman has a lot of pretty medals from the time of occupation, doesn’t he?”

                “Grumman wasn’t part of the extermination campaign,” Roy argued. This was true. The day before Bradley’s order had come down, Grumman had been thrown from his horse and badly broken his hip. He had had a long recovery after that.

                “You were,” Olivier countered.

                Roy’s voice dropped. “I… I know I was. That’s why I want to become president. I know how terrible things can be. And I won’t let anything like that happen again!”

                “Is that your answer to the prompt?” Darius injected.

                “Yes,” Roy said. “We’re still at war with Creta and Aerugo, and we have a frosty relationship with Drachma at best. That needs to change. We need a lasting peace. I want to bring that peace.”

                “Okay,” Darius said, “Mr. Storch, your answer?”

                “Ishval,” Storch replied.

                “I beg your pardon?” Isaiah asked.

                Storch addressed him directly. “We’re not stupid, you know. Ishval’s got an army now.”

                “The army in Ishval is part of broader Amestrian army,” Isaiah argued.

                “Sure they are,” Storch sneered. “It’s not because the Ishvalan soldiers and the Ishvalan alchemist are planning sedition.”

                “We’re not,” Isaiah said pleadingly. “We needed alchemists to rebuild. They’re trained to construct sewer systems, not wage wars.”

                “Lies!” screamed Storch. “If the good, pure-blooded people of this country don’t act quickly by electing me president, Ishval will be in full revolt, and we’ll have another Civil War on our hands! Do you want you beautiful little children slaughtered by these mongrels? Ishval must be brought to heel, or else!”

                “Well, uh, that’s a wrap,” Darius said and switched off the radio transmission so that any further words Storch said wouldn’t be transmitted.

                “You’re playing with fire,” Olivier hissed at Storch. “Words like that can incite a mob to violence.”

                Storch only leered at her. “I know. That is what this country needs.”

                As the crowd began to file out, Isaiah scanned the crowd for Roy Mustang. They had not, yet, really talked face-to-face. Isaiah greatly hoped that he would win, but he knew that the presidency could just as easily go to Mustang. If that was the case, the fate of Ishval depended on what sort of man he really was because, despite what Storch had alleged, Ishval wasn’t preparing to revolt. Yes, they’d be better prepared to defend themselves if there was another Presidential Decree #306, but Isaiah would be happy to never see another Civil War. Mustang might not have been up on the Partible Inheritance Act, but he’d seemed sincere about not wanting to repeat the horrors of the past. And Isaiah knew that people could change.

                Isaiah spotted Mustang up ahead, but then his eyes narrowed. Although Major General Armstrong was nowhere to be seen, her aide – Lance Corporal Kanda – appeared to be trailing Mustang. As he walked in the area behind the stage toward the exit, Isaiah saw Kanda swiftly scale a ladder and continue stalking Mustang on the catwalk above. To Isaiah’s horror, he saw a glint as she drew a dagger.

                He knew that he could call out, but he knew just as well that that wasn’t the most optimal solution to the problem. Instead, he scaled the ladder behind Kanda. He wasn’t as fast as her, but when she heard someone behind her, she turned her focus from Mustang to stare at Isaiah instead.

                “What are you doing?” Isaiah asked softly.

                Kanda’s eyes quickly shot back to where Mustang had been, only for her to realize that he was now walking through the exit. “Damn it,” she swore. Pulling out a cloth, she began carefully wiping something off of her blade before sheathing it.

                “What’s that?” Isaiah asked.

                Kanda glared at him, and Isaiah met her gaze evenly. “Poison,” she said finally.

                “Oh, Naomi,” Isaiah said softly.

                “He deserves it!” Kanda hissed.

                “And what happens next?”

                “What?”

                “After you kill presidential candidate Roy Mustang, what happens next?”

                Kanda bit her lip. “That doesn’t matter.”

                “I see,” Isaiah said. “But I thought I taught you better than that.”

                “Because Ishvala forbid any of the murderers be brought to justice?” Kanda asked sarcastically.

                “Because you’re only thinking about yourself,” Isaiah chided. “Even if you weren’t there to see it, what sort of country are we left with if one of the candidates for president is slain before the election?”

                “A pretty sorry one,” Kanda retorted, “but the world’s a sorry place to begin with.”

                Isaiah cocked his head and frowned. “What happened?”

                “You just saw,” Kanda said. “I decided to murder a murdered, but you made me miss my chance.”

                “I don’t mean that,” Isaiah said. “Where did you get that dagger?”

                “None of your business,” Kanda said.

                “Something happened, didn’t it?” Isaiah asked.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kanda nearly shouted. She looked around wildly and only relaxed when she saw that the area beneath them was now deserted.

                Isaiah sat down on the catwalk, cross legged. “Naomi, you can talk to me. You know that.”

                There was a beat, and then Kanda sat down on the crosswalk, as well. “There was a Drachman spy,” she said finally. Her tone was neutral, like it was no big deal, but Isaiah saw the tears at the edge of her eyes.

                “What happened with this spy?” Isaiah asked in the gentlest tone of voice he could manage.

                “I tortured him,” Kanda said finally.

                “Oh, my child,” Isaiah said. The reservoirs keeping Kanda’s tears back broke, and she began to sob heavily. Isaiah held her as she choked out the details of what had transpired. Isaiah waited until she had quieted before speaking again.

                “Where’s Armstrong now?” he asked.


	9. The Queen's Aide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst in this chapter!

                For the purpose of campaigning, Olivier and Kanda had booked two hotel rooms in Central. They could have stayed at the Armstrong Mansion, of course. There was certainly plenty of room. Olivier had rejected the idea, however. Her family had previously returned from their trip to Xing, and Olivier wasn’t interested in hearing their input on the campaign – or their insistence that she allow Alex back on the property. Additionally, Olivier was self-conscious of the extravagance of wealth when she was there with Kanda. What Olivier had grown up to take for granted, Kanda found overwhelming.

                As the hours ticked on and Kanda didn’t return to the hotel room, Olivier found that all of these concerns seemed petty by comparison. It was not that Olivier had expected Kanda to return after the second presidential debate. She didn’t think much of Mustang as a person, but she acknowledged his skills as an alchemist.

                There came a knock on the door. She opened it to discover Isaiah Keystone standing there.

                “Come in,” she said. While they were of course rivals, Olivier approved of Isaiah. She remembered one of the trips she’d taken to Ishval since the rebuilding. She’d been taking lunch with Miles when he’d said a prayer in Ishvalan over his food before eating.

                “Your Ishvalan is improving,” Olivier commented.

                “Thank you,” Miles said, switching back to Amestrian. “Master Isaiah is a good teacher. He’s the one who taught me that prayer. Well, re-taught it, anyway. My grandfather had tried to teach it to me when I was a boy, but I’d forgotten half of it.”

                “And he is Scar’s master?” Olivier asked.

                Miles laughed. “Yes, I know, they’re rather different, aren’t they?”

                “Ha! Like night and day!” Olivier said.

                “Do you know what Master Isaiah says about Ezekiel?” Miles asked, using Scar’s legal name.

                “What?” Olivier asked.

                “He says that he’s like ginger.”

                “Why? Because he’s got a hard exterior and tastes terrible?”

                “Because he was always going to grow the way he wanted to,” Miles said. “And some of us happen to like the taste of ginger.”

                “I imagine you wouldn’t be with him if you didn’t,” Olivier said smartly.

                Olivier almost smiled at the memory, but it faded before it could begin. She had a feeling she knew what this was about. It would certainly explain the way Isaiah’s face was set in such a determined expression.

                “I’m here to talk to you about Lance Corporal Naomi Kanda,” Isaiah said.

                “She was a good aide,” Olivier said.

                “ _Was?_ ” asked Isaiah pointedly. “Is she no longer under your command?”

                “She’s still alive?” Olivier asked.

                “No thanks to you,” Isaiah said.

                “Well, well,” Olivier said. “I’m impressed.”

                “Mustang’s still alive, too,” Isaiah added. “I got to her in time.”

                “That’s a shame,” Olivier said.

                “For all he’s done,” Isaiah said through gritted teeth, “it won’t be good for our country for one of the presidential candidates to be assassinated by the aide-de-camp of one of his rivals. But more importantly, I don’t like you trying to make a murderer out of Naomi.”

                “She’s a soldier,” Olivier said nonchalantly.

                “And that shouldn’t be the same thing as a murderer,” snapped Isaiah. “I thought _you_ understood that.”

                “Oh come off it,” Olivier said, “Mustang hardly would have been an innocent victim.”

                “Yes, and I imagine you wouldn’t consider that Drachman spy to be innocent, either,” Isaiah said, “but have you consider the impact all of this is having on Naomi?”

                “I’m making her strong,” Olivier said. Again she found herself thinking of Miles – this time from when he had been her aide. Years prior, when the Extermination Campaign had been raging, the letters had begun arriving. They came from Miles’ family, reporting to him when other members of his family had been killed or had disappeared never to be seen again. It had taken six letters in all until every member of his family with Ishvalan blood except his mother had been slain. She’d survived only by dying her hair black and passing herself off as Aerugan.

                The letters wore on Miles. He ate and slept little. He was late to meetings, slow in his duties, and made mistakes in his reports. She’d tried rebuking him, at first, only for her words to be met with sullenness and barely constrained tears. So she’d given him a key and showed him the door it unlocked.

                “There’s nothing in here, sir,” Miles said, when Olivier showed him the unused storage room.

                “Not yet,” Olivier said. “You’re going to fill it up.”

                “As punishment for being derelict in my duties, sir?”

                “No, Miles,” Olivier said, “because you’re a good solider, and I don’t want to lose you. You’d not be easy to replace. Now, what we say and what we show can be used against us. A careless word can be leaked to our enemies. A show of weakness can be our downfall. However, this room is safe. You are the only one who has a key, and it can be locked from the inside. Any words you say – any tears you shed – can be done in here without jeopardizing the security of this fort. This remains true if you wish to say those words to me. In here, nothing you say will be held against you outside of this room. Do you understand?”

                “Yes, sir,” Miles said.

                Olivier shut the door, shutting them in. She stepped aside and allowed Miles to lock it.

                “Well?” Olivier said.

                “A quarter of my family is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” Miles said.

                “Go on,” Olivier said.

                “A quarter of my family is dead, and it’s not right,” Miles said. “A quarter of my family is dead, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” That was when he started crying. Tears streamed down his face, and his shoulders shook.

                “You’re going to start eating at meals and sleeping at night,” Olivier said. “You need to take care of yourself.”

                “A quarter of my family is dead, and I wish I could punch the Führer in the face,” Miles said.

                “Good,” Olivier said. “If you need to say something and that something is painful to you, just say it over and over and over again in here. That will allow you to say it calmly and collectedly out there.”

                “A quarter of my family is dead, and I’m angry about that,” Miles said, and he almost managed to sound calm when he said. His cheeks were still wet, but he wasn’t crying anymore.

                “A quarter of your family is dead,” Olivier said, “but you, you are going to survive.”

                Olivier had helped Miles to be strong, and she had been trying to do the same for Kanda, but now she was faced with a coldly furious priest turned presidential candidate, who rounded on her.

                “Strong?” he demanded. “You thinking torturing a helpless prisoner is strength?”

                “Sometimes,” Olivier said. “You have to know how precarious Ishval’s position is. You heard Storch earlier. When it comes to another Civil War, Ishval must be able to defend itself! Lance Corporal Kanda will be one the soldiers who will ensure that there’s never another Extermination Campaign. No Ishvalan will suffer again at the hands of someone like the Flame Alchemist.”

                “And instead you would have her be the Flame Alchemist?” Isaiah retorted. His voice softened. “We must not lose ourselves in trying to protect ourselves.”

                Olivier opened her mouth to say something, but then she stopped. “Do you think that _I_ am like Mustang?” she asked instead.

                “You chose a vulnerable young soldier to be your aide, and you trained her to murder your political rival,” Isaiah said. “What do you think?”

                Olivier considered him before speaking both because she didn’t want to speak rashly and because she was considering Isaiah. He had come to speak with her, alone and unarmed, but he didn’t hold back on his words. It took courage to do that.

                “That’s not why I chose Lance Corporal Kanda,” Olivier said stiffly.

                “Oh? Then why did you choose her?”

                For the third time since Isaiah had arrived, Olivier found herself thinking of Miles. This time, she was thinking of an incident a few years before the Day of Reckoning. After dinner one evening, Miles was briefing her in her office. After he had finished, she had dismissed him for the night, but he hadn’t left immediately.

                “What is it, Major?” she asked.

                “I wanted to speak to you about a comment you made during mess,” Miles said.

                “What comment?” Olivier asked, perplexed.

                “You said okra was gross and slimy,” Miles reminded her.

                “Well, it is,” Olivier said.

                “Okra is a staple ingredient of many Aerugan dishes,” Miles said. “I like okra. The Aerugan troops serving at Briggs shouldn’t be made to feel inferior just because-”

                “-okra is too lowly a vegetable for the great Armstrong family?” Olivier suggested, finally seeing what he was getting at.

                “Yes, sir,” Miles said.

                Olivier nodded. “Thank you, Miles, for giving me a different perspective on matters. I will keep it in mind for the future. Now get some sleep.”

                “Yes, sir,” Miles said and left.

                Back in the present, Olivier tried to think of an instance where Kanda had challenged her or corrected her or offered a different insight on a matter. To Olivier’s growing dismay, she realized that in the two years that Kanda had been in her service, she couldn’t think of a single example.

                “I made a mistake,” Olivier said to Isaiah.

                “It’s good of you to recognize that,” Isaiah said. “Would you consider reassigning Kanda to a different position?”

                Olivier shook her head. “I won’t send her away like a dog that’s piddled on the floor. I won’t have her career suffer for my miscalculation. If she’s to be reassigned, it will be with a promotion. She’s been a fine aide-de-camp, and that deserves to be recognized.”

                “I understand,” Isaiah said.

                “I shouldn’t need her for much longer, however,” Olivier said. “I just need her long enough to help as I suspend my presidential campaign and endorse your candidacy.”


	10. Job Offers

                After Isaiah left, Olivier waited for Lance Corporal Kanda to return to the hotel room. She arrived a little before midnight.

                “Evening,” Olivier said crisply.

                “Yes, sir,” Kanda said. She hesitated and then added, “Are you dropping out because of me?”

                “No,” Olivier said. “I’m dropping out because Mr. Keystone is exceptionally good at talking to people and persuading people. Must come from having Scar as a disciple, I imagine. Those are skills that a president will need. Additionally, I was looking at the latest polling numbers again.” Olivier handed a small stack of papers to Kanda, who flipped through them. “Tell me what you see.”

                “Yes, sir,” said Kanda. “We’re nearly tied with Master Isaiah. There’s still many people who are undecided.”

                “Go on,” said Olivier.

                “People who answered “Strongly Agree” to the question “Do you believe Presidential Decree #306 benefited Amestris?” were most likely to favor either Storch or Mustang. People who answered “Strongly Disagree” to the question “Should there be major changes to the status quo?” were most likely to favor Mustang. People who answered “Strongly Agree” to the question “Would you rate fairness and equality as top priorities?” were most likely to favor Master Isaiah or yourself.”

                “Enough,” Olivier said. “I can read the report myself if I want to. What is the data telling you? Look at the big picture.”

                Kanda thought hard. “People who like you also like Master Isaiah, whereas Storch and Mustang are competing with each other, except that Mustang is seen as upholding the status quo whereas Storch is not.”

                “Exactly,” Olivier said. “With my candidacy suspended, many of those who have been supporting my candidacy could be persuaded to support Mr. Keystone instead. Now, the night is late. In the morning, we need to handle the paperwork for withdrawing from the race, and then you will need to pack your things; you’re being reassigned.”

                “Sir?”

                “You heard Storch tonight, didn’t you?” Olivier said crisply. “There’s a target on Mr. Keystone’s back, if there wasn’t one before. I’m recommending you for his security detail. You’ve been an excellent aide-de-camp, but our future president needs your services more, don’t you think?”

                “Yes, sir,” Kanda said. “Thank you, sir.”

                The suspension of Olivier Armstrong’s presidential campaign was not only thing that required planning. There was also the affair of Al and May’s Resembool wedding. It was decided that it was going to be a double wedding, with Winry and Ed tying the knot as well. The date was set for the day before voting, and invitations were sent out. Food options were tasted, cake designs were examined, seating arrangements were worked and reworked, and wedding roles were assigned.

                It was for this reason that Scar, Miles, and their daughter Adva found themselves taking a trip into Resembool on their off day. It was – Scar learned – Amestrian tradition for the father of the bride to walk her down the aisle during her wedding. As this was the Resembool wedding, May wanted to follow the Amestrian traditions (just as Al had followed the Xingese traditions for their Xing wedding) which of course proposed a problem in that May’s father was dead and had also never a said a word to her in her life, to boot. After much discussion with Al and Winry and Ed, it was agreed that Scar would stand in for May’s father and walk her down the aisle instead. Thus Scar was in Resembool to learn was it was that he was to do. Miles and Adva were there for moral support.

                May was showing Scar where the aisle was and what he would be doing. “You walk me down like this until I get to Al,” she explained. They did a practice run. May frowned after they were done. “You need to sit down afterward. No, not there. That’s where Pinako will be sitting. Here, this is your seat.”

                Scar inclined his head in the direction of where Miles was and sent a desperate, silent plea for help. Miles waved back cheerfully. Adva mimicked him, and Scar resigned himself to a difficult day.

                As Scar was being put through his paces, Miles found himself in conversation with Jerso while Zampano busied himself arranging photographs for the reception display.

                “So who are you voting for?” Jerso asked conversationally.

                “Master Isaiah,” Miles said, “now that my queen dropped out. You?”

                “Still deciding,” Jerso said. “I want to consider it carefully, given that we’re not going back to Xing with Al and May.”

                “You’re not?”

                Jerso shook his head. “Travis has family up north. They don’t know he’s alive yet, but after talking with my sister, we’re going to go reconnect with them. He’s got some nieces and nephews that are still pretty young. We were talking about it, and he doesn’t want them growing up without knowing him.”

                “Uh…Travis?”

                “Zampano,” Jerso explained. “My first name’s Jimmy, by the way. What’s yours?”

                “Miles,” said Miles. When Jerso looked at him in confusion, Miles elaborated. “It was Bradley, but I changed it. I’m Miles Keystone now. So what are you and Zampano going to do if you’re no longer bodyguards?”

                “Haven’t quite figured that out,” Jerso admitted, “but we both had a chance to study the Purification Arts while in Xing, so maybe we can make a living as alchemists. Not in the State program, obviously.”

                Scar eventually was able to break away from May and the wedding planning – apparently he was excepted to _dance_ at the reception – and ran into Yoki while getting a drink.

                “I am not wearing a dress,” Yoki told Scar firmly.

                “What?”

                “It’s tradition for flowers to be thrown before the bride as she’s walking down the aisle. The job is usually done by a young girl, but May doesn’t know any young girls in Amestris besides Adva, so she asked me to do it. I’m honored to have a role in her big day, but that awful shrimp of a former-alchemist was teasing me and saying that I should wear a dress. Hm!”

                “I see,” said Scar. May had met Adva on one of her visits to Ishval.

                “And he’s planning to vote for Mustang!” Yoki seethed.

                “I hope that my master prevails in the race,” Scar said.

                “Well, it won’t be Mustang, that’s for sure,” said Yoki.

                “You sound very confident,” Scar said.

                Yoki gave him a conspiratorially look. “If you’re willing to help me out, sir, I can make sure that Mustang loses.”

                “What are you suggesting?”

                “Nothing illegal,” Yoki said. “Well, maybe some light trespassing.”

                “What do I need to do?” Scar asked. Yoki explained, and Scar nodded. They arranged for a day to meet. After they had finished talking, Scar found Winry Rockbell looking at him hesitantly.

                “Can I help you?” Scar asked.

                “May and I were talking, and we were wondering if Adva would be willing to be one of our flower girls,” Winry asked.

                “Like Yoki?” Scar asked. The other man had left to assist Zampano.

                Winry giggled. “Yes. But between me and you, Adva’s cuter.”

                “She most certainly is,” Scar said proudly. “You’re welcome to ask her.” Winry did, and Adva readily agreed to it. Then May bound up, smiled happily at Adva’s agreement, and pulled Scar away to discuss wedding attire.

                A few days later, after Scar and the family had returned to Ishval, Major General Armstrong paid the region a visit to attend a rally there with Isaiah. There were still some Briggs soldiers stationed in Ishval, and Olivier wanted to ensure that if they had been planning to vote for her, that they’d now vote for Isaiah. She and Miles grabbed dinner afterwards.

                “You were right,” Olivier told Miles.

                “About what, sir?” Miles asked.

                “Lance Corporal Kanda,” Olivier said. “She was too young.”

                “Why did you recommend her to be Master Isaiah’s bodyguard, then?”

                “Because she’ll do a fine job at that,” Olivier said. “She was capable in her duties as my aide, too. It is just that she never challenged me the way you did.”

                “I see, sir,” Miles said. “I’m still not available for the position.”

                “I know,” Olivier said forlornly, “but I still need to find another aide.”

                “Someone with a different background than you,” Miles mused, “who is old enough to have the confidence to speak back to you when needed.”

                “Right.”

                “What about Jerso?”

                “Jerso? The frog chimera?” Olivier asked.

                “One in the same.”

                “I thought he was in Xing?”

                “No, he and Zampano are back now,” Miles said. “They were planning to head north anyway, and Jerso is looking for a job. Also, he’s been studying the Purification Arts.”

                “He’d have the re-enlist,” Olivier said, “but yes, I’ll arrange a meeting with him. Can you get a message to him?”

                “Consider it done,” Miles said.

                A few hours before Olivier and Miles got dinner, Havoc fidgeted nervously in the waiting room of his doctor’s office. To take his mind off the visit, he fished his copy of The Canon of Medicine out of his bag and continued his reading of it. He was in the midst of reading about the bilious humor when his doctor finally called him in.

                “Sit down,” said the doctor. Havoc’s x-rays lay on his desk. He handed a marked up copy of the x-rays to Havoc, who studied them. “This your spinal cord,” he said. “Look at L1 and L2 of lumbar vertebra.” The doctor moved to point to what the lumbar vertebra was, but Havoc’s eyes were already there.

                Havoc’s face frowned as he concentrated. “The ventral nerve roots of L1 and L2 are crisscrossed?” Havoc asked finally. He wouldn’t have noticed it in the x-rays if the doctor hadn’t drawn attention to it.

                “Yes,” the doctor said, sounding perplexed. “You had no difficulties walking when you were child, correct?”

                “None,” said Havoc.

                “Then you got stabbed,” the doctor said.

                “Uh huh.”

                “You were paraplegic until nearly three years ago, when you spontaneously regained the ability to walk?”

                “It was a miracle,” Havoc said. He had no desire to explain about Philosopher’s Stones or how they were made.

                “I’m going to be honest, son,” said the doctor, “In thirty years of practicing, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

                “Well, you can’t question miracles,” Havoc told him.

                The morning of the third presidential debate, Riza Hawkeye unexpectedly found Olivier Armstrong joining her for breakfast in the mess hall at East Command. Riza blinked as Jerso sat down next to Olivier. She hadn’t seen Jerso since the Promised Day.

                “Morning, Lieutenant,” Olivier said.

                “Morning, Major General,” Riza said. “And to you, Jerso.” She processed that he was wearing a Briggs military uniform. “Excuse me, I mean Private Jerso.”

                “Same to you, Lieutenant,” Jerso said.

                “My new aide-de-camp,” Olivier explained.

                “My congratulations,” said Riza.

                “My hope is that he won’t be the only one going to Briggs,” Olivier said.

                “Pardon me?” Riza asked.

                “There’s a planned diplomatic mission to Drachma,” Olivier said. “The hope is that we can, you might say, defrost our relations. Grumman thought it best to send some new faces. As you might imagine, I’m not very popular with the Drachmans. Jerso will be going. I hope that you would be going, as well.”

                “Have you spoken with Brigadier General Mustang about this?” Riza asked.

                “No, not yet,” Olivier said. “I wanted to gauge your interest first.”

                “As you may be aware, Mustang and I aren’t just professionally entangled, we’re…”

                “Lieutenant, everyone’s aware,” Olivier said. Then she saw the confused look on Jerso’s face. “Excuse me, everyone who hasn’t spent the last year in Xing is aware. Lieutenant Hawkeye and Brigadier General Mustang are intimately involved.” They had publically confessed their feelings for each other at the climax of Mustang’s trial, and it had been widely reported in the newspapers. (The exception was the Eclipsed Sun, which had instead reported that Mustang had proclaimed his love for a giant, orange alligator that had been living in the sewers beneath Central City.”

                “Isn’t he her boss, sir?” Jerso asked.

                “He is,” Olivier said dryly. “In any sense, I’m not asking the lieutenant to abandon her beloved. He’s welcome to join her at Briggs in a civilian capacity. I’m sure there’s a storage closet we can stick him in in one of the lower basements.”

                “A civilian capacity, sir?” Riza asked.

                “Of course,” Oliver said. “Superior-subordinate relations aren’t tolerated at Briggs, but if he loves you, he’s welcome to resign his commission.”

                “You don’t expect him to become president, sir?” Riza asked.

                “Of course not,” Olivier said. “I’ve endorsed his rival, haven’t I?”

                “If he becomes president, he’ll need me by his side, sir,” Riza said politely.

                “And if he doesn’t, seriously consider my offer. It’ll be for the good of the country.”

                Breakfast finished. Olivier and Jerso left, but Riza lingered a while longer, thinking about what Olivier had said. She had no doubt that Olivier had had an ulterior motive for the offer, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t an offer worth considering.


	11. Storch's Rally

                The third debate, like the two prior to it, was set to take place in a debate hall in Central, so on the morning of that debate, after Riza had finished breakfast with Olivier and Jerso, she joined Roy and the rest of his team for their travel into Central. There was much that Grumman’s tenue would be remembered for, and one item on that list was the vast improvements to the rail system of Amestris. There were more tracks and more trains that ran faster than in the days of Bradley.

                En route, Riza relayed to Roy what Olivier had told her. “I had heard something of that,” Roy said after Riza had finished speaking. “Apparently, Drachma had a change of leadership a year and half back. The new premier wants peace, but of course they don’t want Drachma to appear weak. So they’ve been rattling the saber while extending the olive branch.”

                “And what do you think of her offer, sir?” Riza asked.

                “I don’t intend to lose,” Roy said, “and I don’t intend to sleep in a storage closet, either, but the mission she describes in a worthy one.”

                “So…?”

                “So you’re interested?” Roy asked with a chuckle.

                “I am,” Riza admitted. “I know it won’t happen, since you’ll need me by your side when you become president, but if we can’t have that, I want to help this country bring about a more peaceful future.”

                Roy gazed at the passing landscape out the window of their train cabin. “Ishval has been rebuilt. With Colonel Miles at the helm, the region will be in good hands, whether I’m occupied with the president’s office, or following you north.”

                “I love you,” Riza whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

                Roy grinned. “And I you.” There was a knock on the door of the cabin. “Come in,” Roy called. The door opened, and Havoc entered on his crutches. Roy eyed them forlornly. “Another bad day?” Roy had noticed that Havoc had been using his crutches every day of late, but before then he’d restrained himself from commenting.

                “Not actually,” Havoc said easily. “Doctor wants me to use them even on good days, is all.” He saw the look on Roy’s face. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to be concerned about. Anyway, the reason I’m here is that I talked with Ross before we headed out. Storch has a big rally planned after lunch in Central. I want her and I to check it out. Storch doesn’t have the same definition of ‘fair and free election’ that we do.”

                “Do you have masks?” Riza asked.

                Havoc grinned. “Ross has them. The bedsheets, too.”

                Roy grinned. “Be careful, and let me know what you find out.”

                “Roger that, sir.”

                Ross met Roy’s team at the train station, where Havoc separate from the rest of the group. Out of sight from prying eyes, Ross and Havoc donned togas and slipped the carnival masks over their faces. Then they headed to the rally.

                “Is your back bothering you?” Ross asked, concerned, as they headed to their destination.

                “Nah,” Havoc said. “It’s just doctor’s orders. It’s just a temporary thing, but if I don’t use the crutches, I put pressure on my lumbar vertebra, which is what’s been causing the pain.” Havoc looked down. “Mustang doesn’t like it when I use my crutches.”

                “He worries about you,” Ross said. “It’s the kind of man he is.”

                “I know that,” Havoc said, “but I wish he wouldn’t. He’s about to be president. He’s going to have a whole country to worry about. He needs to be worried about Storch.”

                “Your life is important, too,” Ross said.

                “That’s not it,” Havoc said. “Three years ago, I couldn’t feel my toes. Mustang changed that, but the Philosopher’s Stone he used to do it, it’s just, it was made with Ishvalan lives. I was in Ishval, during the Extermination Campaign. Didn’t see much action; I lucked out and mostly had supply line duty, but I knew where all those guns were going and what they were going to be used for, you know? And now, if not for the death of some Ishvalan I never even met, I wouldn’t be able to walk.

                “A country that would tolerate the Extermination Campaign isn’t going to elect that Ishvalan guy running. I wish we were in that place as a country, but we aren’t. So it’s either going to be Mustang or Storch, and if Storch wins, he’s going to raze Ishval to the ground. We can’t let that happen.”

                “You feel very passionate about this,” Ross said.

                “Yeah,” Havoc said. “God, I wish I could have a smoke right now. These masks are really inconvenient.”

                “Shh,” Ross said. “We’re here.”

                Keeping together, they slowly merged into the outer edge of the crowd. It was a much large crowd that Havoc would have preferred to see. He didn’t like that Storch could command the attention of so many people. In the end, they couldn’t get more than ten feet from the edges, a fact that would later save their lives. Storch was a small figure in the distance when he came onto the stage to thunderous applauses.

                Another masked figure pushed his way into the crowd, until he ended up next to Havoc and Ross. “Did I miss anything? Has he started yet?” the masked figure asked eagerly.

                “No, he’s just starting now,” Ross assured him.

                The masked figure puffed out his chest. “I’ve met him personally, you know.”

                “Then why are you all the way back here?” Havoc asked, which prompted Ross to stamp on his foot.

                The masked figured looked down. “One of my customers came by to complain that the meat I sold him was bad, which was not true, but that caused me to run late. Then I lost the address and had to find my way here blind. I’m sure His Excellency would have waited for me if he could, but I guess, you know, that wouldn’t be fair to the crowd.”

                “Of course,” Ross said. “His Excellency has to think of what’s best for all of us.”

                “Right,” said the masked figure, brightening up. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Eric Dunst.”

                Ross shook it. “Mary Smith,” she lied. “This is my friend, John Smith. No relation.”

                “Pleasure to meet you,” Eric said. “I feel like we must have run into each other before, but your names don’t ring a bell. That’s the downside to these masks; it makes it hard to recognize people.”

                “Can’t smoke, either,” Havoc said.

                “Ooo!” Eric squeaked. “He’s starting now. Hush. Hush! Everyone be quiet.”

                Radios had been set up around the area to broadcast Storch’s words. “Democracy is a mistake!” Storch roared as an opening. There were applause and cheers from the crowd, and Storch waited for them to die down. Havoc gathered that this was a common refrain at his rallies. Storch continued. “This is not to suggest that such fine people as yourselves shouldn’t vote, but to enfranchise the Cretans? The Aerugans? The Ishvalans? To give a voice to all the subhuman trash that should be ground beneath our feet? Is that right, I ask you? Well?!”

                “NO!” roared the crowed with one voice.

                “What, you disagree?” Eric hissed, when he didn’t hear Havoc and Ross join in with the rest.

                “He can’t hear us from back here,” Ross pointed out.

                “It’s the principle of the thing,” Eric said, sounding pouty.

                “Well, my friends,” Storch said. “When you elect me president, it’ll be the last election you have to concern yourselves with. I will protect you. I will enrich you. You will be lords in this country!”

                There were cheers from the crowd, and this time, Ross and Havoc were careful to join in when the saw how those around them were acting.

                “There is something I must ask of you first, however,” said Storch. “I need you to vote, and I need you to vote multiple times.”

                “Vote multiple times?” Havoc repeated softly to himself. Nevertheless, Eric overheard.

                “Duh,” he said to Havoc. “What, is this your first rally?”

                “I…uh…”

                “Hush you two,” Ross said. “Our future president is talking again.”

                “Campaign volunteers will be making their way through the crowd to give you what you need,” Storch was explaining. “On election day, vote, throw the cap away in a discrete manner, and then vote again in a different location.” Storch didn’t leave the stage, but he ceased speaking as the volunteers moved through the crowd, handing out something to the attendees. Havoc craned his neck to see, but all he managed to do was irritate Eric.

                “They’re caps,” Eric said in an exasperated voice. “He went over all this at the other rallies.” One of the volunteers reached them then, and Havoc was handed a small satchel. He opened it up and pulled out a small, translucent piece of fabric, shaped to fit over a finger. Realization dawned on him. If Storch’s supporters wore these when voting, their fingers wouldn’t be stained purple, as the caps would absorb all the ink. Then the supporters could discard the cap and vote again and again throughout the day.

                “Oh, no,” Havoc gasped and instantly regretted it.

                Eric turned to him suspiciously. “I know where I’ve heard your voices before. You were those people who chased me that day, when I was out campaigning.” Reaching out, he snatched Havoc’s carnival mask off his face. “It is you. You’ve got the same crutches, too. You’re spies for Mustang! Hey, everybody! We’ve got a couple of spies from Mustang right here! I say let’s show them what we think of that!”

                “Run,” said Havoc.

                “Can you…?” Ross asked, but Havoc had already dropped his crutches and taken off. Ross followed. The crutches aided in their flight, as Eric tripped of them, and several other members of the crowd tripped over Eric. Havoc and Ross were clear of the crowd before pursuit could begin in earnest.

                The two sped down two blocks, turned quickly into an alley way, and scaled a fence. Ross started running again once they were on the other side, but she stopped when she realized that Havoc was no longer with her. Turning, she saw he hadn’t gotten up after clearing the fence. He had shoved his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from crying out in pain. Ross crouched beside him. After a minute, he slowly removed his fist.

                “Ouch,” he said quietly. “Not good. I can’t go any further.”

                “I’ve got you,” Ross said. Scooping him up, she slung him over her shoulders and carried him toward the hotel room where Roy and his team were preparing for the debate.

                “And I’ve got the satchel,” Havoc said triumphantly.

                “Good,” Ross said. “I dropped mine.”

                “As long as you don’t drop me,” Havoc said with a weak laugh.

                Roy looked up in alarm when they entered the hotel. “What happened?” he demanded.

                “Yo, boss man,” Havoc said. He tossed the satchel to Roy. “Storch is planning to use these to rig the election. All his supporters at the rally have them. Also, can you alchemy me up a wheelchair?”

                “We got made,” Ross said and explained what had transpired. Roy scowled as he constructed a wheelchair out of the chair and desk in the hotel.

                “I shouldn’t have let you go in your condition,” Roy said.

                “If I hadn’t gone,” Havoc shot back, “we wouldn’t have known what Storch was planning.”

                “It could have been someone else,” Roy said.

                “Well, I wanted it to be me,” Havoc said. “God, I need a smoke.” Lifting himself into the newly created wheelchair, he rolled himself out on the patio and lit a cigarette. After a few minutes, Ross joined him.

                “How are you doing?” she asked.

                “Frustrated,” Havoc said. He took a drag of his cigarette. “Mustang doesn’t understand.”

                “Doesn’t understand what?”

                “That…that…look, when I got hurt, it was hard. It was real hard. I felt like a failure, going back to the family grocery store. Then my mom made me join this support group. Rural life if tough, you know? Accidents and injuries happen. Even if none of them had come out on the bad fight with a homunculus they’d been dating, they understood.” Havoc gave a chuckle at something he was remembering.

                “What?” Ross asked.

                “In the support group, the person who headed it would always tell us that we had to deal with reality. There wasn’t going to be any magic cure that made us all better. Well, what do you know, I got one. Blew my damn mind. So I wish Mustang would stop stressing out over me.”

                “You should tell him that,” Ross said.

                “That’s the thing,” Havoc said. “I keep trying! Man, I just want him to stop worrying.”

                “Come on,” Ross said. “Let’s go back inside.”

                Havoc snubbed out his cigarette, and they rejoined the rest, where Riza was quizzing Roy about debate topics.

                “Hey, sir?” Havoc said.

                “Yes?” Roy said, turning his attention to Havoc.

                “Just worry about the debate tonight,” Havoc said, giving him a thumbs up sign. “We’ll all be there, cheering you on.”

                “How can I worry about the debate-” Roy started, but Riza put a finger to his lips. “What?” he asked.

                “Not now, sir,” Riza said. “You haven’t told me what you think the marginal tax rate brackets should be.”

                “Not grounds for me getting strangled,” Roy said, remembering the previous debate. “Oh, fine.” He cast a glance at Havoc. “We’ll talk later, Second Lieutenant.”


	12. The Third Debate

                Darius did not return as moderator for the third presidential debate. After his performance during the second debate, the committee Grumman had tasked with organizing the various aspects of the election had curtly fired him with the words “It was supposed to be a debate, not a three ring circus!” So Darius returned to the Circus Animalis Animus, which was, in fact, a three ring circus. The circus was doing a circuit near in the East Area, although Darius knew that they might be down a clown for one of the nights. Yoki had some mysterious outing planned that he needed some personal time for.

                Thus it was that the election committee had to find another moderator. Reluctantly, they settled on Major Alex Armstrong, after he swore that he would try to do his best to keep his clothes on for the duration of the debate. He had wanted to moderate the previous debates as well, but the election committee did not think that that would have been fair, as his sister had been a candidate during those debates.

                As the debate was about to begin, the candidates filed in. Storch was stage right, near Major Armstrong’s moderator podium. Roy was in the center, and Isaiah was stage left. Lance Corporal Naomi Kanda accompanied him as far as the stage and then waited just out of sight in the left wing, anxiously scanning the area for threats.

                “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!” Major Armstrong boomed. This immediately caused a distortion as the radios throughout the audience echoed his words. Not even Darius, with all his practice at the circus, could match Major Armstrong’s powerful vocals. A technician fiddled with the sound equipment to fix the problem.

                “You’re ready, sir,” said the technician and then scurried off the stage.

                “I was born ready!” Major Armstrong assured him before addressing everyone else in the room. “Tonight’s debate will take the form of a town hall. Audience members will raise their hands, and when I call on them, they may ask a candidate a question. Begin!” Hands shot up around the room. “You, in the blue shirt! What’s your question? Remember to press the red button and then speak into the microphone.” Because it was a town hall style debate, microphones had been added to all of the seats so that the questions could be heard across the country.

                Blue Shirt stood up. “My question is for Mr. Keystone. I was wondering if he could find one nice thing to say about his two remaining opponents.”

                “Certainly,” said Master Isaiah, smiling at the question asker. “Brigadier General Mustang has worked tirelessly to support the rebuilding of Ishval, and Mr. Storch has very nice hair.”

                “Why, thank you,” Storch said graciously. “I’ll kill you last.”

                “Weren’t you planning to do that anyway?” Roy asked snidely. He had read through Storch’s campaign platform.

                “You won’t know,” Storch said heatedly, “because I intend to kill you first.” He took a step away from his podium toward Roy menacingly, but before he could get further than that, Major Armstrong had vaulted over his podium to put himself between Storch and Roy, his shirt now lost in the rafters above the stage.

                “No fighting!” Major Armstrong shouted. “This is a debate, not a duel.”

                “He promised!” an election committee member moaned, staring at Major Armstrong’s bare chest forlornly.

                After Storch had reluctantly returned his podium, Major Armstrong returned to his and called on the next person. It was an older man wearing a bowler hat.

                “This question is for Brigadier General Mustang,” said Bowler Hat. “Three years ago, you promised to carry out King Bradley’s will. Why then have you championed the rebuilding of Ishval?”

                “I knew King Bradley very well,” Roy said, verbally dancing as swiftly as he could. Those had been Ross’ words, actually, but they’d been on his behalf and so counted the same. Not to mention that his purported loyalty to Bradley underlined the lie that he _hadn’t_ staged a coup on the Promised Day. “King Bradley was a great man and a great ruler. As it is known, I personally helped carry out Presidential Decree #306. Therefore, I think King Bradley, were he still with us today, would fully support my actions.”

                Bowler Hat wasn’t deterred. “So are you for or against genocide?”

                “Important policy decisions have to be made with regard to the specifics of the situation and the context of the times,” Roy said glibly.

                “So…sometimes?” Bowler Hat asked, confused by Roy’s answer. Unfortunately for him, Major Armstrong called on the next person. It was a woman in a flower blouse.

                “This question is also for Brigadier General Mustang,” said Flower Blouse. “It has been widely reported that you are having carnal relations with your subordinate, Lieutenant Hawkeye. If this is true, why have no disciplinary actions been taken against you?”

                “Well, um…” Roy stammered.

                “That same reason no disciplinary actions have been taken against him for treason!” interrupted Storch. “You’ve all been taken in by his pretty face and-”

                “The question was to Mustang!” bellowed Major Armstrong, cutting Storch off. “You can speak when it’s your turn.” Major Armstrong struck a bodybuilder pose, and Storch was so busy just staring at him that he forgot what he was going to say next.

                “So that answers that question,” Roy said, using his most winning smile.

                “But you didn’t-” Flower Blouse started to say, but Major Armstrong was already calling on the next person.

                A man with a mustache stood up as Flower Blouse angrily sat down. “This question is for Mr. Storch. You want to kill a lot of people if you become president. Will men need to be conscripted into the army for you to keep your campaign promises?”

                “Not at all,” Storch assured him. “The State Alchemist program produces efficient killers, such as our esteemed moderator here.”

                “I wouldn’t!” Major Armstrong said, suddenly taken aback. “Not again. Never again.”

                “Oh come off it,” Storch said. “You’re a State Alchemist in good standing. You’ve sworn absolute loyalty to the leader of this country. If I’m elected president, and I ordered you to kill, let’s say, that jumped up Ishvalan across the stage, I expect you to do it.”

                “No,” said Major Armstrong stubbornly.

                “See, this is what’s wrong with this country,” Storch said, addressing the crowd now. “We have weak-willed alchemists who think they can get state certification and then commit treason like that rat Mustang or disobey orders like our thickheaded moderator here. When I become president, I’ll put an end to that. State Alchemists will be held to a higher standard. Ow!” The last word was said because he’d been hit in the head with Major Armstrong’s State Alchemist pocket watch.

                “I quit!” Alex said. His shoulders were going up and down, and he was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a long way or lifted something very heavy.

                “No!” wailed the election committee member in the audience. “It’s still the middle of the debate!”

                “No, I don’t quit being a moderator,” Alex said. “I quit being a State Alchemist.” He looked at Roy. “You should quit, too.”

                “I can’t receive immoral orders if I’m president,” Roy pointed out.

                “And if I win, you’ll have bigger things to worry about,” Storch said.

                “You’re not going to win,” Roy said, pulling the satchel Havoc had given him out of his pocket, “because I’m not going to let you steal the election.” He opened up the satchel and pulled out one of the finger caps. “These have been given by Storch’s campaign to many of his supporters. He intended to have his supporters vote multiple times and thus undermine our fledgling democracy.” Crossing the stage, Roy handed one of the caps to the election committee member, who was sitting in the front row in front of Storch’s podium.

                “All voting officials will be on the lookout for such tricks,” the election committee member promised. “This will be a fair election. Thank you for your commitment to democracy.”

                “Master! Look out!” Lance Corporal Kanda shouted. She tackled Isaiah, her momentum carrying them both near center stage, just as the bomb went off. As far as Roy could tell from the brief glance he got, it was a rebel’s cocktail – flammable liquid in a spirits bottle stopped up by a rag that was set alight. Someone in the audience had thrown it.

                Roy hurried to where Kanda and Isaiah lay. Neither of them had made it entirely clear of the blast. What was left of Kanda’s legs from the thighs down was a mangled, charred mess. His eyes went to Isaiah Keystone.

                “Oh, God,” he whispered in horror. He had already fished the Philosopher’s Stone out of his pocket, but now he just stared at Isaiah. There was so much damage. Keystone had lost consciousness and was drawing ragged, irregular breaths, but he was still alive. He could thank his bodyguard for that much.

                Jean Havoc was in the audience in his makeshift wheelchair, right up front near center stage. He rolled as close to the stage as he could get, and then pulled himself up onto the stage on his belly. His previous use of a wheelchair had left him with considerable upper body strength, and he hadn’t let the muscles atrophy after Roy had healed him. Primarily using his arms so as to not put pressure on his spine, he scooted to where Roy and Isaiah were.

                “Hurry up and heal him, sir,” he whispered.

                Roy looked at him. “There’s no way,” he said. “I’ll mess it up, like I messed up you.”

                “Not the time, damn it,” Havoc said. “You can do this. You made a dummy to serve as Ross’s corpse that one time. You know how a human body is made.”

                “But-”

                “A spleen, Roy,” Havoc said. “He needs a new spleen. Do it.” Roy grasped the Stone tightly and held it over Isaiah’s body, willing a spleen into existence. “Now, his inferior mesenteric artery is ruptured. You need to repair that.”

                Roy nodded. “Okay, I’ve got this. Help that girl. And Havoc? Thank you.”

                “Got it, boss,” Havoc said. He shuffled over to Kanda, who was going in and out of consciousness due to the pain. Taking his shirt off, Havoc tore it in two and tied each piece around Kanda’s thighs as tightly as he could. That would stop her from bleeding out, but he didn’t think the doctors were going to be able to save her legs.

                Roy had nearly finished healing Isaiah when the Philosopher’s Stone gave out. There was a spark, causing Roy to wince and shake his arm in pain. He went to pick up the dropped Stone, only for it to crumble into dust before him.

                “Guess that’s that,” Roy said. He examined Isaiah. He was going to need a new left foot, and the doctors should probably check him over, but he would live. He glanced at Kanda.

                “She’ll live,” said Havoc.

                “She was a witness at my trial,” Roy said. “I killed her parents.” He scooped up Isaiah and carried him to where the paramedics were waiting. There was a flash of light. Roy’s first instinct was that it was another bomb, but then he just realized it was a camera going off. He processed that the debate hall was mostly empty, but the news people hadn’t fled like everyone else.

                He handed Isaiah to the paramedics. Behind him, Alex arrived, carrying Kanda. They were the only ones injured, and after they had been taken to the hospital, Roy collapsed down on the stage next to Havoc.

                “I guess this makes up for me mucking up your healing,” Roy said, exhausted.

                “Shut up,” Havoc said. “You didn’t muck up my healing.”

                “Really?”

                “Oh, fine,” Havoc said, “you connected the ventral nerve roots of my lumbar vertebra wrong. I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d feel all guilty. But it’s fine, really. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to walk at all.”

                “The ventral nerve…” Roy echoed. “Ah, Hell. They aren’t supposed to crisscross, are they?”

                “No, not usually,” Havoc said.

                “Oh, God,” Roy said. “What if I did something like that with Keystone?”

                “Then he’ll have to get follow up surgery to correct it,” Havoc said, “the same as I am.”

                “You are?”

                “Already have the appointment. If all goes well, I should be off the crutches permanently.”

                “I’m so sorry, Havoc.”

                “I know, sir,” Havoc said, “but you don’t have to take on so much responsibility. You need to learn that you don’t have to be the one to do everything. Let the doctors worry about Keystone. You’ve done your part.”

                “Don’t scold me, Second Lieutenant,” Roy said.

                “Yeah, whatever,” Havoc said. “Come on, everyone else has left. The debate’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

                “Where’d you learn all that medical terminology, anyway?” Roy asked.

                “I’ve been reading medical textbooks since I went back home after getting stabbed,” Havoc said. “It was, you know, a coping mechanism.”

                “Huh,” said Roy, helping Havoc into his wheelchair. “I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

                “Ha ha, sir,” Havoc said. “Very funny.”

               


	13. Youswell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kernel of an idea that became the events of this chapter was one of the first ideas I had when I began to plot out this fan fiction.

                The day after the violent third presidential debate, Yoki found Scar waiting outside of the circus as they had arranged. He was sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper. His hands were clenched about the edges of the page. Yoki wasn’t surprised. The front cover showed a picture of Mustang carrying Master Isaiah to safety under the headline THE HERO OF ISHVAL.

                “Is Master Isaiah okay?” Yoki asked. Master Isaiah had been the loudest voice calling for Yoki to be shown hospitality after he’d had his commission in the military revoked.

                “He’s going to need a new foot,” Scar said, “but he is going to be fine. His bodyguard pushed him mostly clear of the blast. She is going to need new legs; they had to amputate from the thighs down. Miles and Adva are with him now. Once we’re finished, I’m not leaving his side until the election is over.”

                “I’m glad to hear it,” Yoki said. That might have not been entirely sincere. It wasn’t that Yoki _wasn’t_ glad to hear it. It’s just that he wasn’t glad to hear it either. At the end of the day, Yoki was selfish, that was all. The wellbeing of other people didn’t especially concern him. Still, it was the kind of thing one was expected to say.

                “Where are we going?” Scar asked.

                “Youswell,” Yoki said.

                “Why there?” Scar asked. He only knew Youswell as the town that May had entered the country through when they had first met.

                “Ah, so, um, the crux of the matter is,” Yoki dodged.

                “What?” Scar demanded.

                “I used to be in the military,” Yoki said. Scar cocked an eyebrow, and Yoki looked nervous, even under his clown makeup. “Surely I must have mentioned that before? Ha ha, must have slipped my mind. Ididn’twantyoutosmashmyfacein,sir.”

                “I’m surprised they would have you,” Scar said.

                “In the end, they didn’t,” Yoki admitted. “My commission was revoked, curses be on Edward Elric’s name. But before that, I used to run Youswell.”

                “Fine, let’s go,” Scar said.

                Yoki sauntered after him. “It wasn’t like I was in Ishval,” Yoki said.

                “You weren’t?” Scar asked.

                “Oh, goodness no!” Yoki assured him. “I had bone spurs, you see.”

                “Bone spurs?”

                “Yes, in my stomach,” Yoki explained.

                “You never mentioned this condition previously,” Scar said.

                “Oh, it cleared up immediately after the Extermination Campaign ended,” Yoki said nonchalantly. He was forever thankful that his cousin Edgar had become a doctor because it meant that he could sign the necessary doctor’s notes that Yoki wrote.

                “So, you left Youswell,” Scar said.

                “Right,” Yoki explained. “And it wasn’t entirely voluntarily. I wasn’t appreciated the way I should have been. There were even some people who went so far as to resent me, if you can believe that.”

                “Uh huh,” said Scar. “Is that why you’re still dressed a clown even though we’re not at the circus?”

                “It is. I’m hoping that they don’t recognize me.”

                “And why I’m here?” Scar asked.

                “I need protection if they do,” Yoki sniffed. Scar made an indistinct sound as a reply.

                When it came down to it, protection was why Yoki had begun traveling with Scar. It hadn’t happened right away, after they’d both left the Ishvalan community in the slums outside of East City. They’d gone their separate ways, initially. Yoki had ended up trying to panhandle on another street of the edge of town. Unfortunately, the road had a deep ditch on each side, which meant that Yoki was practically in the street.

                A too nice car had screeched to a halt in front of him, the well-dressed man in the passenger’s seat making shooing motions at him. The driver – who was a large, well-built man – had gotten out and made to force him into the ditch. Yoki had cringed, and then Scar had come up behind the driver. He had his hood up and his pilfered sunglasses on, but Yoki recognized him even if the other two men hadn’t. Scar had still been weak from his injuries, but he’d succeeded in pushing the driver into the ditch.

                The well-to-do passenger had gotten out to scream at the two of them. He hadn’t gotten far. Yoki had stuck out a well-timed leg and sent the rich man tumbling into the ditch, as well. Then Yoki and Scar had stolen the car. They hadn’t been able to keep it, of course. It was too identifiable. In the next town, Yoki sold it and used the money to buy a horse and cart. Of course, Yoki could have left Scar at any points, but when it came down to it, he felt safer at Scar’s side than he did on his own – and safety was very important to Yoki.

                Safety wasn’t the only thing important to Yoki, however. Petty vengeance ranked high, as well. So it was that Scar and Yoki took the train into Youswell and arrived before lunch. Unfortunately for Yoki’s hopes that they could be discrete, it was a busy day, Scar was a publicly known figure, and Yoki was dressed as a clown.

                “Look!” said Kyle as they came into town. “It’s Scar. And he’s got a clown with him!” Then Kyle got a bit closer. “Wait, it’s that bastard _Yoki_. Why is Yoki dressed as a clown?” The crowd gathered around them, murmuring indistinct threats.

                Kyle Halling’s father pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “What are you doing here, Yoki? I thought we told you to beat it?”

                “I’m here on important election business!” Yoki squeaked, ducking behind Scar.

                Mr. Halling addressed Scar. “What’s this about? And what are you doing with a former lieutenant of the military?”

                Scar regarded him impassionedly. “It is as Yoki said. We’re here to stop Mustang from becoming president.”

                “What’s that have to do with Youswell?” Mr. Halling asked.

                “Yoki has damaging photos of Mustang stashed here,” Scar explained.

                “Look,” Mr. Halling said, “I don’t much like most State Alchemist, either, but hasn’t Mustang been in charge of the rebuilding of Ishval?”

                “Yeah, and he saved that Ishvalan guy who’s running,” Kyle said.

                Scar frowned. Yoki wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t brought Scar along for his conversation talents. Yoki supposed that Miles must have rubbed off on Scar because Scar found his words. He also found Yoki’s arm with his hand. In one swift pull, Scar had dragged Yoki out from behind him and was now holding him up for the crowd to see. Yoki’s feet kicked uselessly in the air.

                “You all know Yoki,” Scar said.

                “Yeah,” said Mr. Halling. “He’s the piece of trash who used to be our landlord.”

                “Would you forgive him if he did one good deed?” Scar asked.

                “Yoki wouldn’t do a good deed,” Kyle countered.

                “I did to do one good deed!” Yoki protested. “I struck a blow against a terrible villain and saved the lives of three people!”

                “I wasn’t present for that,” Scar said nonchalantly.

                “It would take more than one good deed for us to forgive him,” Mr. Halling said.

                Scar nodded. “What if Yoki did many good deeds over a period of time?”

                “He might have a look-alike who’s a better person than him,” Kyle said.

                “I have met a shape-sifter,” Scar agreed.

                “I helped rebuild Liore,” Yoki sniffed from where he dangled helplessly in Scar’s grip. “It was hard work. I got callouses on my hands!”

                “It would take a lot of time and a lot of good deeds for us to forget what Yoki did in the past,” Mr. Halling said.

                Scar nodded again. “And during that time, would you want Yoki in charge of Youswell?”

                “No!” the crowd said unanimously.

                “No, you wouldn’t,” Scar said. “The Flame Alchemist did far worse things than even Yoki did. That he oversees the rebuilding of my homeland is perhaps unavoidable. We have few allies who have the influence he does in government. Nevertheless, we do not wish to see him as president.”

                “Annnd,” Yoki added, as Scar finally set him down, “he used to make fun of my name!”

                “What’s so funny about the name Yoki?” Kyle asked.

                “I see your point,” Mr. Halling said. “I’ll help you retrieve these photographs.”

                “Thank you,” Scar said.

                “Did they find the man who responsible for last night’s attack?” Mr. Halling asked as they headed to the manor estate where Yoki had once gloriously lived.

                “They did,” Scar said. “It hasn’t been officially announced yet, however. The assailant was a Storch supporter, although he claims that he acted alone.” Scar glared darkly at the ground. “He said that he had to act because if Isaiah Keystone won, Ishvalans would march through the streets and slay innocent Amestrians."

                "That’s about what Storch said at the second debate, wasn’t it?” asked Mr. Halling.

                Scar scowled. “My people just want peace. We have an army and alchemists because we don’t want to be defenseless if there’s another administration like Bradley’s.”

                “Sounds reasonable to me,” Mr. Halling said.

                They reached the manor grounds, and Yoki led them first to a shed, where they retrieved shovels, and then to the base of a particular tree. The three men dug up the ground until they had retrieved a sturdy box. Scar opened it, and then he and Mr. Halling gaped at the pictures contained within.

                When Scar and Mr. Halling had finally gotten over their shock, Mr. Halling bid Scar and Yoki farewell, as they left Youswell with the pictures. They walked back toward the circus in silence.

                “Isn’t there something you want to say?” Yoki prodded finally.

                “And what is that?” Scar asked.

                “You have to say I’m the greatest,” Yoki insisted.

                “Do I now?” Scar asked.

                “Absolutely!” Yoki said firmly.

                “Hm…” Scar said, considering it. “You’re okay.”

                “I’m just okay?” Yoki repeated, scandalized. “I’ve got pictures to destroy Roy Mustang, and I’m just okay?”

                “That’s true,” Scar said. “All right -- you’re the okayest.”

                Yoki considered it for a minute. “Fine!” he said finally, “But no take backs!” This got a small laugh out of Scar, and Yoki stared at him in surprise. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Scar laugh before. There. That was another good deed he’d done.

                Scar wanted to send copies to the newspaper right away, but Yoki insisted that he wait until closer to election day. The campaigns continued. There were rallies and fliers and polls. Isaiah Keystone and Lance Corporal Kanda were both released from the hospital. Scar and Miles barely saw each other, as one of them was always at Isaiah’s side while the other took care of Adva. (All of Ishval agreed that protecting Master Isaiah was part of Scar and Miles’ respective jobs for the time being.) As election day drew near, it was like ordinary life was postponed. The whole country waited on baited breathes.

                The pictures hit the newspapers the day before the election, which happened to be the day of Winry and Ed’s double wedding with May and Al. Every newspaper, from the most esteemed publication to the trashiest tabloid, had received copies of the pictures. The more dignified papers only reported on the existence of damaging photographs. The less dignified papers described them in some detail, hemming and hawing where propriety demanded it. The tabloids ran the most salacious photos on the front page. The Eclipsed Sun ran the most salacious photos on the front page – but only after doctoring them to coincide with their current theme.

                Riza bought a copy of every paper she could find and perused them while she and Roy prepared for the wedding festivities which were to begin in the afternoon.

                “Sir, you understated the case when you said that there were pictures,” Riza said.

                Roy groaned while fiddling with the buttons on his tuxedo. “I thought Eve was dead,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who sent the photos to the papers, but when Breda finds out, there’s going to be suffering.”

                “Suppressing dissent wouldn’t be a wise course when you become president,” Riza said.

                “You think I can win after this?”

                Riza held up one picture and tilted her head to look at it. “People will forgive youthful indiscretions,” she said. She showed the picture she was looking at to Roy. “Why are you dressed like a baby?”

                Roy fumed at the tabloid she was holding. “It was initiation week. I was being hazed. Come on, didn’t the girls do hazing?”

                “Not like that,” Riza said. “How did you arrange the one with you, Hughes, and the pool table?”

                Roy briefly grinned. “I guess somebody never knew about the secret pool table in the East Basement.”

                “I didn’t realize you were so flexible, sir,” Riza said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

                “I’ll make it up to you later,” Roy promised, “when we’re celebrating my victory.”

                Riza held up another tabloid and pointed to the picture on the front. “What’s with the cow?”

                “Her name was Bessie,” Roy said. “What? Oh, come on! You know I wasn’t really, right? It was just simulated. Oh, God, look, I was pretty drunk that night, okay? And Hughes dared me. And Eve had that camera of his.”

                “I don’t remember a cow when I was at the academy,” Riza said.

                Roy thought for a moment. “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t. She was before your time. She came down with something, so we have a barbeque and ate her.”

                “Well,” Riza said. “We should be heading to Resembool.”

                “They don’t get the newspaper out in Resembool, right?” Roy asked, as they headed out the door. “It’s way out in the country. Probably nobody can read, so there’s no market for a newspaper.”

                “We can only hope, sir,” Riza said.

               


	14. Two Weddings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title for this chapter is Roy Mustang's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

                Winry and Ed’s double wedding with May and Al was set to be in the afternoon, followed by an outdoor reception dinner in a field near the Rockbell family home. There was a wedding arch and a long red carpet had been laid between rows of chairs. A local judge would be performing the ceremony. A local restaurant was catering, and tables had been set up in the field, surrounding a dance floor. The live band was already getting set up for the reception, and there was a great deal of sheep. The sheep weren’t actually supposed to be at the wedding and reception, but Winry, Ed, and Al had grown up in Resembool and barely paid them any heed. May was too polite to ask if sheep being present was an important Amestrian wedding tradition or not.

                As the wedding guests filed to their seats, the wedding party gathered at the start of the red carpet. Al and Ed, in matching tuxedos, were already at the wedding arch. Al had refused to choose between Jerso and Zampano for the role of best man and so instead had no best man but two groomsmen. Ed – Greed’s influence perhaps having rubbed off on him – had decided that Darius and Heinkel were both his best man. In turn, he had no groomsmen. Winry had chosen Paninya as her maid of honor and Rosé Thomas as her bridesmaid. May had firmly declared that Xiao May was her maid of honor and it was her wedding, too, so no one had argued. May had no bridesmaids. It was unbalanced and unconventional, but it was their wedding, so they could do what they wanted.

                Winry found her gaze resting on Scar. There was a time when she never would have imagined him being there for her special day, but her life hadn’t gone the way she had expected. Winry felt a tug on her wedding dress and looked down to see Adva in her pretty flower girl dress with a matching flower crown in her white hair.

                “Are you angry with Alchemist Daddy?” Adva asked. Winry hastily forced her expression to neutral, but she realized it was too late. She crouched down.

                “He once made a very big, very bad mistake that hurt me very much,” Winry explained, “but he’s also very sorry. I’m still sometimes a little angry with him, but it’s not anything you need to worry about because you’re a cutie-patootie.” She gently bopped Adva on the nose with her finger, which got a giggle out of the flower girl. Adva bound off to join Elicia Hughes and Yoki, and Winry smiled at how well Adva got around on her automail leg. Yoki handed out baskets of flowers to the two girls. True to his word, Yoki wasn’t wearing a dress, but he did have a matching flower crown and a basket of his own.

                Winry heard someone shuffling up, and she turned to Garfiel’s boyfriend Joshua Berkovich swinging by to wish Garfiel good luck before taking his seat. It was Garfiel who would be walking Winry down the aisle. She expected Joshua to kiss Garfiel, exchange a few words, and then be on his way. To her surprise, Joshua came to a dead stop. To her further surprise, it’s Scar he was staring at.

                “Sheifale!” Joshua managed finally in a strangled voice.

                “Josh,” Scar said, almost coldly. “I’m not your sheifale anymore.”

                “Oh, Ishvala, oh,” Joshua moan. He shot a guilty look at Garfiel. Then, to Scar, “You go by Ezekiel now, don’t you?”

                “Either that or Scar works,” Scar said.

                After a long moment, Joshua tore his look away from Scar and kissed Garfiel on the mouth. “Good luck, honey,” he said, and then took his seat.

                Winry gave Scar an odd look. She was trying to remember her limited Ishvalan vocabulary. “Doesn’t ‘sheifale’ mean ‘lamb’?” she asked finally.

                “The bastard,” was all Scar said in response, and Winry was pretty sure he hadn’t actually heard her question.

                Getting everyone down the aisle with an unbalanced wedding party was a challenge, but with some finagling, they made it work. Sig Curtis, standing in as the father for both grooms, sat Pinako, who took what would have been Sarah Rockbell’s role. Darius and Heinkel walked down the aisle with Paninya between them, and then Jerso and Zampano did the same with Rosé. May was content to have Xiao May enter on her shoulder. Winry glanced at her as the groomsmen and bridesmaid left down the aisle. Xiao May was wearing an adorable maid of honor dress in miniature.

                The flower girls went next. Elicia, being the smallest, took the lead. She was followed by Adva, with Yoki bringing up the rear. Petals were thrown, and in the audience, Gracia shared her handkerchief with Miles, as both of them couldn’t keep their eyes dry.

                Winry watched as May took Scar’s arm and guided him confidently down the aisle. Even if the traditions were different, May had already done this in Xing to – Winry had gathered from Al – a significantly larger crowd. Winry, however, found herself with butterflies swarming in her stomach.

                “You’re going to do great,” Garfiel whispered to her, handing her her bouquet and slipping his arm through hers. The butterflies fled, and everything was a blur. Winry remembered saying “I do” and remembered Ed saying the same words. She remembered “I now pronounce you husband and wife” and standing up on her tippy-toes to kiss Ed, but the rest was all a happy fog. She was thankful that there was a photographer on hand because it wasn’t until the wedding party was exiting to take pictures before the reception that she began to remember things clearly again.

                While the wedding party took pictures, the other guests found their ways to the tables for cocktail hour before the dinner began properly. Roy Mustang found the seat that had his name on it. He took a seat and then glanced at the empty seat beside him. The name card on it ready Ezekiel. Roy stared at it, wondering if it belonged to a different Ezekiel, but sure enough it was Scar who sat down beside him when the wedding party began filtering in after pictures. Scar didn’t pay Roy any heed; he seemed to be in a bit of a daze.

                Dinner was served, which Scar and Roy ate without speaking to each other. Riza was on Roy’s other side, and they chattered until after dessert, when Riza excused herself to use the bathroom. Roy looked up to see Winry and Ed making the rounds, greeting the guests and thanking them for coming. As the newlyweds came near Roy’s table, he saw Winry freeze at the sight of him. She whispered something to Ed that Roy couldn’t hear. Ed’s response, on the other hand, was perfectly audible.

                “Of course I invited Mustang!” Ed shouted. “I know we haven’t kept in touch much since I lost my alchemy, but I was hardly going to exclude him from our big day.”

                “But I invited Meital!” Roy heard Winry wail. “I wish you would have asked me first.”

                “I thought it was a given,” Ed replied. “And who’s Meital?”

                “I haven’t introduced you to Meital yet, have I?” Winry said. She sighed. “Why did you put Mustang and Scar next to each other?”

                Ed rubbed the back of his head. “Um, well, Major Armstrong wanted to sit next to Sig, so I switched him and Ezekiel, and I forgot that Ezekiel was Scar, all right?”

                “It’s quite all right,” Scar said to the newlyweds suddenly. They turned to him in surprise and came a bit closer.

                “Really?” Winry asked.

                “Of course,” Scar said. “It’s your wedding day. Don’t worry about anything. Besides, I was hoping that Mustang would tell me about his Academy days.” This got a snort of laughter out of Ed, and even Winry had to bite her lip to stop from laughing. Roy fumed. Apparently they did get the newspaper in Resembool.

                “Come on,” Winry said, taking Ed’s hand. “Let’s go introduce you to Meital.”

                “Winry knows Meital Pasternack?” Roy asked, to nobody in particular.

                Nevertheless, Scar answered. “Winry Rockbell has done laudable work in Ishval. She is one of the foremost experts at automail options for minors. She does much to heal old wounds. No doubt she knows Meital from her work at the hospital.”

                The words were mild enough, but Roy hadn’t forgotten the Academy crack. “So you and Miles, huh?” Roy asked. “Never thought you would go for a man in uniform.”

                “A man in uniform I don’t mind,” Scar said. “It’s the dogs I can’t abide.”

                “And you’ve got a daughter now,” Roy said.

                “Watch your words,” Scar said softly, the unspoken threat evident.

                Roy held up his hands in an I-Didn’t-Do-Nothing gesture. “I was just wondering what her wedding day will be like when she’s older. Would you both walk her down the aisle?”

                “Yes,” Scar said bluntly. “That’s the way it’s traditionally done in Ishval. I notice that there are a lot of sheep around. Or is it just cows for you?”

                “Her name was Bessie, and I would like you to know that I ate her,” Roy said, regretting his words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Scar’s mouth dropped in surprise, and he failed to provide a comeback. Roy smirked. Maybe that was a victory? He decided to count it as a victory.

                May Chang bound up then to pull Scar away for their dance. She guided Scar through the dance while Garfiel twirled Winry and Izumi danced with Ed and Al simultaneously. Then May paired up with Al and Winry paired up with Ed as the couples danced together. Then the guests joined in or found drinks or chatted at their tables.

                Roy decided to walk around, while Riza opted to stay at their table. He passed Alex Armstrong at the table that Scar was originally supposed to sit at. Alex Armstrong was seated with Colonel Miles on one side of him and Sig Curtis on the other. Izumi Curtis was on the other side of Sig. Tears were streaming down Alex Armstrong’s face. Sig had a comforting hand on his shoulder.

                “What am I going to do?” Alex sobbed. “I said I was never going to run away again, and I went and quit being a State Alchemist on live radio.”

                “You should be proud of yourself for no longer being a dog of the military,” Izumi said sharply.

                “But what is my family going to say?”

                “I don’t know,” Colonel Miles said. “Major General Armstrong might take it better than you’d think.”

                “But what am I going to do?”

                Sig caught Miles’ eye, and understanding passed between them. Miles nodded, and Sig said, “Why don’t you help rebuild Ishval?”

                “Construction is set to begin on New Kanda soon,” Miles said. “Your alchemy skills would be of great use.”

                “But if I go to Ishval…” Alex began before trailing off.

                “Making amends isn’t easy,” Izumi told him pointedly, “but you didn’t want to run away anymore, didn’t you?”

                “You’re right!” Alex said loudly. He pushed his chair back, stood up quickly, and Roy had to sidestep to avoid Alex’s shirt falling on him. “I will go Ishval and atone by helping to rebuild!”

                Roy continued to amble through the tables when he ran into a second former State Alchemist. Dr. Tim Marcoh was standing near the edge of the dance floor, craning his neck in the direction of the open bar that had been set up. When he saw Roy, he smiled and waved. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and notebook.

                BEAUTIFUL EVENING, MUSTANG, Marcoh wrote.

                “Sore throat?” Roy asked. Marcoh opened his mouth, and Roy saw that he no longer had a tongue. “What the Hell?” Roy asked.

                LONG STORY, Marcoh wrote.

                “I heard you were serving a life sentence in Ishval,” Roy said. “Did they let you out?”

                JUST FOR TONIGHT, Marcoh wrote. MAY PENTIONED FOR IT, AND THE JUDGE APPROVED IT. MISTRESS SHAN IS CHAPERONING ME.

                The name “Mistress Shan” rang a bell in Roy head, and he tried to place her. “Mistress Shan? Does she work for you at the hospital?”

                Marcoh chuckled and wrote, I WORK FOR HER.

                All of a sudden Roy remembered who Shan was. She’d been one of the jurors at his trial. She was the director of the New Light Memorial Hospital. Meital Pasternack had been the chief witness against him, and she worked as Keren Shan’s assistant. Sure enough, Shan was hobbling toward them now, her cane clutched in one hand and two drinks balanced precariously in the other.

                Marcoh slipped his pen and notepad back in his pocket. He brought both hands up his chin and then pushed them outward. Roy didn’t know what that meant, but he gathered it was some sort of sign language.

                “You’re welcome,” Shan said. She handed one of the drinks to Marcoh, who took it. Roy suspected that Shan had already had a few drinks by this point because she swayed as she handed the drink to Marcoh. He held out his free arm, and when she nodded, he looped it through hers, balancing her. Then she saw Mustang.

                “You!” she said, horror in her voice. “Murderer!”

                “You’ve got a murderer on your arm,” Roy answered coolly.

                “Know that,” Shan said, slurring some of her words. “But he’s our prison door, not a, a Bridge General.”

                “Brigadier General,” Roy corrected her.

                “High Lord Mucky Muck!” Shan spat, “Mr. Bigshot who wants to be the prescience, the precedent, the pre- the king of the Ishvalans!”

                “President,” Roy said. “I’m running for president.”

                “Go jump in a lake!” Shan retorted, and she threw her drink in his face. Everything that happened next happened very quickly. Roy brought his hand up, his fingers in a finger-snapping position. Marcoh’s eyes went wide in horror. He immediately let go of both his drink and Shan, both of which fell to the ground. Marcoh went down as well. Roy saw him press his hands together in a praying motion before putting them to the ground, at which point an earthen wall shot up between Roy and the other two.

                “Temper, Mustang,” Roy heard. He turned to see Scar behind him. Roy dropped his hand, abashed. Pushing past Roy, Scar touched Marcoh’s wall, causing it to disintegrate. On the other side, Marcoh went to put his hands together again, but he relaxed when he saw that it was Scar who had destroyed his wall. Scar reached down to help Shan to her feet, and Marcoh used alchemy repair his shattered glass. Roy saw that all of the alcohol had even been returned to it.

                “You can jump in a lake, too!” Shan told Scar as he took her empty drink from her. She took Marcoh’s arm again for support. “But don’t you jump in a lake,” she told him. “If you let me go, I think I shall fall down again.” Marcoh squeezed her hand reassuringly. Then Scar had grabbed Roy and was dragging Roy away through the crowd.

                “Are you going to kill me?” Roy asked. Scar was clutching Roy with his right hand. If he chose to attack, Roy would have no time to respond.

                “Nobody is dying at Winry Rockbell’s wedding,” Scar growled. Then he froze. Winry was right in front of them. Before she could look up at them, Scar let go of Roy’s arm and threw his arm around Roy’s shoulder. There was suddenly a ghoulish smile on his face.

                “Oh, Scar, Mustang,” Winry said. She was looking at them in confusion. “Is everything okay?” she asked. Roy suspected that if Scar had been throttling him instead, Winry would have paid them no heed, but Scar, in trying to be inconspicuous, was achieving the exact opposite.

                “Everything is fine!” Scar assured her, the words tumbling out of his mouth too quickly to be believable. “May Ishvala bless you on this day and all your future days.” Roy nodded to Winry that he was okay. Hastily, Scar left, guiding Roy along with him. They passed a sheep with a waiter’s tray inexplicably strapped to its back. Scar deposited Shan’s empty drink on the tray and continued onward.

                Their final destination, Roy discovered, was the table where they’d been sitting and where Riza was still sitting. Oh, goodie. Roy was going to die, after all. It just wasn’t going to be at Scar’s hands.

                “What’s going on?” Riza asked quietly when they approached.

                Scar pushed Roy toward Riza. “The Flame Alchemist threatened to incinerate one of the elders of my community. Put a leash on your dog.”

                “You did _what_?” Riza hissed as Roy sat down beside her and Scar left.

                “I assumed the finger-snapping pose,” Roy said glumly.

                “You threatened an Ishvalan elder?” Riza demanded.

                “She started it,” Roy protested.

                “After everything we’ve worked for?”

                “I lose my temper,” Roy sulked.

                “What were you thinking?”

                “She threw her drink in my face,” Roy said. Grabbing a napkin off of the table, he dipped it in his water glass and began wiping away the stickiness.

                “You threatened a little old lady with death by fire because of _that_?” Riza raged quietly.

                “Did you know that Marcoh opened the Portal of Truth?” Roy asked. “He can transmute without a circle.” Roy knew that the surviving members of the Immortal Legion had been restored, and now he had a good idea how that had been achieved.

                “Don’t try to change the subject,” Riza snapped.

                “Look, it wasn’t like snapping my fingers would have done anything,” Roy protested. “These are just ordinary gloves. I couldn’t get a spark off of them if I wanted to.”

                “Did _she_ know that?” Riza asked.

                “Probably not,” Roy admitted.

                “You need to apologize,” Riza said firmly. “Right now.”

                “Fine,” Roy said. He tossed the napkin on the table and led Riza to where he’d last seen Shan. She wasn’t there, but he found her a short ways away. She was vomiting on a sheep while Marcoh held her steady and kept her hair out of her face. When he saw Roy, he glared at him. Although Roy wasn’t looking at Riza, he was fairly certain she was glaring at him, as well. Roy cleared his throat, and Shan stopped retching long enough to focus her gaze blearily on him. “I wanted to apologize,” Roy said, “for losing my temper. I’m sorry.” In response, Shan vomited on his shoes.

                After Scar had deposited Mustang with Hawkeye, he found his way over to the table Miles was at. They hadn’t had nearly enough time together since the third presidential debate. They were only both able to attend the wedding and the reception because Olivier Armstrong had promised to spend the evening by Master Isaiah’s side. The Briggs-trained soldiers Brock and Beige had also been enlisted as bodyguards for Master Isaiah, and Scar did his best to not worry that something was going to happen while he was occupied with festivities.

                “Beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it?” Miles said, when he saw Scar approach. There were two empty chairs between Miles and Izumi, and Scar took the one nearest to Miles.

                “It very much was,” Scar said. “I’m very happy for them.”

                “Care to dance?” Miles asked.

                Scar hesitated. “We’re not in Ishval.”

                “Yeah, but _dancing_ isn’t against the law,” Miles said. “Besides, they’re doing it.”

                Scar looked toward the dance floor and saw Garfiel and Joshua tangoing with great skill. “Oh, _him_.”

                “Hm?” Miles asked.

                “Joshua Berkovich,” Scar explained. “We knew each other when we were younger. He was my first.”

                “I thought _I_ was your first?”

                “First kiss,” Scar clarified.

                “What happened?” Miles asked.

                Scar glowered. “He told me ‘Given how dry it is here, I never thought I would encounter a stick in the mud, but then I met you.’”

                Miles gave a short bark of laughter before stopping himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. That must have stung a lot.”

                “I was nineteen,” Scar said. He looked at the dance floor again. Jerso and Zampano were slow dancing. It wasn’t a slow dance song any more than it was a tango song, but there wasn’t an inch of space between the two chimeras. Sig Curtis and Alex Armstrong were also on the dance floor, performing complicated steps to avoid tripping over sheep. Izumi clapped enthusiastically, her eyes on them. Scar stood up and held out his hand to Miles. “Come on. You lead.”

                “Certainly,” Miles said, taking Scar’s hand and leading him onto the dance floor.

                The festivities continued into the evening. There was laughter and drinking, and nobody died. As the night wore on, the music died down, and the attendees began to bid their goodbyes to the newlyweds before retiring to their homes. Few people had to work the following day, as a public holiday had been called so that Amestris could have democracy for the first time in decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I was looking to present Sig & Izumi as a poly couple, not as Sig being adulterous. I hope that came across clear enough.


	15. And a Funeral

                When Mistress Shan awoke the morning of the election, she didn’t know where she was at. She was on a simple cot, and she was still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the wedding. Her cane was propped up against the cot. Gripping it, she crossed the room to the only door. The room was oddly small and rectangular shaped. The door was locked from the inside. Unbolting it, she opened it and stepped through.

                On the other side, she discovered that she was in a prison cell. It was Tim Marcoh’s prison cell, judging from the fact that he was asleep on the floor on the other side of the door. There was a deep hole over in one corner, and Mistress Shan realized that Marcoh had used alchemy to partition the room and give her privacy while she slept.

                “Good morning, Mistress Shan,” said one of the prison guards. Marcoh woke up then, and signed _Good morning_ to Mistress Shan, as well.

                “You fell asleep on the train back last night,” said the other guard. “Neither Marcoh nor we knew where you lived, so we decided to put you up here for the night. The door’s not locked, so you can leave any time you wish. Feel free to freshen up first, though.”

                Mistress Shan glanced at the toilet and shower area. There was only a waist high barrier surrounding the area. It afforded privacy, but it didn’t afford much. Marcoh blushed furiously, and after a nod of approval from one of the guards, Marcoh used alchemy to relocate the wall he’d set up around the bed to be around the bathroom area. Pulling out some of his own clean clothes, he used alchemy to make a dress and undergarments for her. The sizes looked about right, which didn’t surprise her; she’d seen Marcoh for medical treatment before.

                “Just leave you dirty clothes in the hamper there,” one of the guards said, “and we’ll make sure they’re washed and returned to you.”

                “Thank you,” Mistress Shan said. Entering the shower, she tried to recall what in Ishvala’s name had happened the night before. She remembered the wedding well enough, but most of the reception was a blur. Once she was dressed, Marcoh got ready himself and then used alchemy to return his prison cell to its usual configuration.

                “Want to come vote with us?” asked one of the prison guards.

                “Sure thing,” Mistress Shan said.

                “Just be careful about Kirchner,” said the other prison guard. “He bites.”

                The guards served a quick breakfast, and then everyone filed out to head to the polls. The prison guards were focused on wrangling Kirchner, which left Mistress Shan to walk with Marcoh.

                “Marcoh had a sleepover?” Kirchner demanded, scandalized, as they left the small, two-cell prison building. “How come I’m not allowed to have sleepovers?”

                “Just keep walking, Kirchner,” ordered one of the guards.

                “What happened last night?” Mistress Shan asked quietly.

                Marcoh touched his right hand to his temple, shook his head slowly, and the cocked his head to the side. _You don’t remember?_

                “Not much,” Mistress Shan admitted. “It’s strange. I only had three drinks.” Marcoh stared at her and then slowly held up six fingers. “Well, fine, I only _remember_ three drinks,” Mistress Shan corrected.

                What followed was a long bit of signing from Marcoh, as he relayed to Mistress Shan what had occurred.

                “I didn’t!” Mistress Shan exclaimed, after Marcoh finished telling her about how she threw the contents of her seventh’s drink in Mustang’s face.

                Marcoh nodded his head yes.

                “Oh, Ishvala preserve me,” Mistress Shan moaned, “I did.”

                As they neared the polling place, Marcoh finished up relating events, explaining that Mustang had apologize, Mistress Shan had ruined his shoes, and then Marcoh had had May heal Mistress Shan, as she’d broken her tail bone when she fell.

                “I’m voting for Storch,” Kirchner declared proudly as they got in the short line to vote.

                “Vote for whoever you want to,” said one of the guards. “It’s a secret ballot, though, so you don’t have to share.” The guards took Kirchner to the voting booth and then waited right outside while he voted. Then they took turns watching him while they voted themselves.

                When it was Mistress Shan’s turn, she accepted her ballot. Going into the voting booth, she filed in the oval next to Isaiah Keystone’s name and turned it in, allowing her finger to be stained purple in exchange for her finished ballot.

                Isaiah Keystone and Naomi Kanda voted together. Isaiah used a cane to assist with balance, as he was still sometimes unwieldy walking on a foot that was half-prosthetic. Naomi pushed herself along in her wheelchair.

                “Have you spoken to Winry Rockbell about automail options?” Isaiah inquired.

                Naomi shook her head. “Not yet. Not for a while, probably. I’m going to Drachma as part of the peace delegation.”

                “I thought you were honorably discharged?’ Isaiah asked.

                “I was,” Naomi said. “I’ll be accompanying the delegation in the capacity of civilian. There’s a Drachman soldier I need to make amends to. I don’t know, but I’m hoping that, in some small way, it will help there be a better relation between Amestris and Drachma.”

                “May Ishvala be with you always, Daughter,” Isaiah told her, smiling gently. They voted and then parted ways.

                All across Amestris, people voted. Ballots were marked and turned in. Fingers were stained purple. The candidates prepared their victory and concession speeches. The day wound to an end, the last people cast their votes, and the polls closed.

                In a hotel in Central, Harold Storch, August Cockburn, and Eric Dunst waited impatiently for the results to come in. On the table in the common area, Cockburn had a map of Amestris spread out before him, which he planned to mark up as reports came in from the different voting locations. When it came to the pre-election day polls, Roy Mustang did well in the East (excepting Ishval) and jockeyed with Storch in Central. Isaiah Keystone did extremely well in Ishval and was favored in the North. Cockburn frowned at the map. There wasn’t as much polling in the South and the West as Cockburn would have liked. Still, if Storch could do well enough in Central, he could beat out Mustang’s margins in the East and take the presidency.

                Ishval was the first area to finish reporting in. Cockburn wasn’t surprised. Its population was still heavily centralized after only three years of resettlement. Cockburn barely glanced at the margins. Isaiah Keystone had won handily – but the population of Ishval was relatively small.

                The East finished reporting in next, and Cockburn examined the results with satisfaction. Storch had fared better against Mustang there than polls had predicted. Cockburn wondered if the circulating pictures of Mustang’s youthful indiscretions had been a factor there. The pictures had dropped too late in the race to be captured in the polls, but Cockburn knew that there were those who valued professionalism in their leaders above all else.

                Central finally reported in, and Cockburn’s face fell as he perused the results. Mustang had beaten Storch handily in Central.

                “What’s this mean?” Eric asked, looking at the numbers.

                “Nothing good,” Cockburn said tersely.

                “I lost?” Storch asked. “To Mustang?”

                “Officially not yet, sir,” Cockburn said. “The race can’t be called until all the votes are in. Still, you need to consider the possibility that you didn’t win. You prepared a concession speech, yes?”

                “Of course,” Storch said. “The election was illegitimate, for no legitimate election could have elected anyone but myself. I urge all of my followers to resist the presidency of Roy Mustang with everything they have. Break windows! Overturn cars! Bash in heads!”

                “What?”

                “That it,” Storch said. “That’s my concession speech.”

                “It’s beautiful, sir,” Eric said.

                “Maybe think on it a bit more,” Cockburn suggested, “while the rest of the results come in.”

                “No, I have another idea,” Storch said. Walking over to the door, he grabbed his coat. “Mustang can’t be president if he’s dead, now can he?”

                “I don’t think it works like that, sir,” Cockburn said.

                “I’ll come, too,” said Eric, grabbing his own coat.

                “I’ll just stay here and be productive,” Cockburn muttered as Storch and Eric left. It didn’t take long for them to reach the hotel in Central where Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye were staying. It was in one of the busier parts of Central, and despite the hour growing late, a crowd had gathered under the balcony of Mustang’s hotel. Win or lose, he’d be giving a speech, and his supporters had gathered to hear it.

                “Stay here,” Storch whispered to Eric. “Mustang is mine.”

                Moving his way through the crowd, Storch took the stairs up to the third floor. When he reached the door to Mustang’s hotel room, he backed up and then rammed into it as hard as he could. The lock broke, and the door opened. Upon entering, Storch was surprised to see that Mustang was just as flexible as he had been in his Academy days.

                “Storch!” Mustang yelped. In a swift movement, he grabbed his pants from off of a chair and struggled to get them back on.

                “I’m going to kill you!” Storch screamed, remembering why he had come.

                Hawkeye reached to her side to draw her gun on Storch, but she wasn’t wearing her gun any more than she was wearing anything else. Mustang was left to fend for himself. With his gloves off, he reach for the first weapon on hand, which happened to be Hawkeye’s bra. He flung it at Storch, and it fell around his neck. Storch ignored it and charged Mustang. The two men went through the sliding glass door, tangled themselves in the privacy curtain, and slammed against the railing. Storch pulled himself free first, and with a shove, sent Mustang over the side of the railing.

                It was three floors down, but when Mustang went over the side, he did so still tangled up in the privacy curtain. Grasping desperately for a hold on anything, he caught the edges of the curtain as he fell out of it. The curtain, in turn, caught the air. This didn’t serve to slow Mustang’s fall by much, but ultimately it slowed it by enough because the curtain then caught a flag pole halfway up. Mustang gave a cry of pain as his descent abruptly stopped. Then he hung there for a moment before dropping the rest of the way to the ground. He rolled when he fell and stumbled when he tried to stand, but he did not appear to be seriously hurt. The curtain floated down after him, and Storch stared at his still living rival in horror.

                “I’ve got him, sir!” Eric shouted, stepping forward.

                “No, Mustang is mine!” Storch screamed, leaning further over the railing. He leaned too far, in fact. The railing – it’s structure already weak from the impact it had sustained – gave way, and Storch tumbled over it.

                It wasn’t the fall that killed him. Halfway down, Hawkeye’s bra, still hung around Storch’s neck, caught on the same flagpole that had saved Mustang. It snapped Storch’s neck. All this happened in a flash, and Storch was dead before Hawkeye, now nude except for her gun, burst onto the balcony.

                “I’m fine!” Mustang called up to her, and she quickly ducked back inside before anyone else could see her. All eyes, after all, were on Storch’s lifeless body, his feet twisting in the wind and occasionally bumping the flag of Amestris than hung from the same pole.

                The authorities were called, and once Roy and Riza were suitably dressed, they gave their statements, as did various people in the crowd. Storch’s body was taken down and sent to the coroner’s office. When Roy and Riza finally retired to their hotel room, it was late, and they were exhausted.

                “So much for our victory celebration, huh,” Roy said. He and Riza had also gotten news that Roy had beaten Storch by a wide margin in Central.

                “There’s always tomorrow, sir,” Riza said.

                “Yeah, let’s just get some sleep now,” Roy said. “I’ll give my victory speech tomorrow. After lunch, I’m thinking. It’s probably good form to wait until the race is officially called.” He relayed this to his supporters and then he and Riza retired for the night.

                In the morning, Roy headed to the president’s office at Central Command first thing. The door was partially ajar, and Roy entered to find Isaiah Keystone already inside, taking a survey of the office.

                “Mustang! Just the man I wanted to speak to,” Keystone said.

                “What are you doing in my office?” Roy asked at nearly the same time.

                “Pardon me?” Keystone asked. “ _Your_ office?”

                Roy heard a chuckle behind him and turned to find Grumman there. “I guess you haven’t seen the final results,” Grumman said. “I happen to have them right here.” He hand a small stack of papers to Roy. It showed the reports from the various districts and the final tally. Roy swallowed hard.

                “Mr. Keystone did that well in the West, did he?” Roy asked.

                “The South, too,” Grumman said. “I’m afraid Mr. Keystone here is our new president.”

                “Not until I get sworn in, Your Excellency,” Keystone said in a conciliating tone.

                “Congratulations,” Roy said stiffly. “I guess I should be heading back to East City then, huh?”

                “Actually,” Keystone said. “I was hoping that you’d join my administration as the Secretary of Veteran Affairs.”

                “What?”

                “You spoke very passionately on the subject during the debate,” Keystone said. He extended a hand.

                “Yes, sir,” Roy said, shaking it. “Thank you, sir.”

                “I imagine you’ll want your standard team,” Keystone said. “That won’t be a problem, except that I must insist that you not have Lieutenant Hawkeye, um, under you. I won’t have one of my secretaries having an improper relation with his subordinate. Of course, I have no problem having her reassigned to Central in a different department, if that’s what she wants.”

                “She’s going to Drachma,” Roy remembered suddenly. “Oh, no, I need to go talk to her.”

                “I’ll walk out with you,” Keystone said. “Storch is getting buried this morning.”

                “Why are you attending, sir?” Roy asked.

                “Because he was my political rival and now he’s dead,” Keystone said. “Thank Ishvala there were numerous witnesses to attest that it was an accident. My presence at his funeral will set a tone. His supporters aren’t just going to dissipate because their candidate lost. Paying respect to the dead may not change many minds, but if it prevents even a single act of violence, then my morning today will have been well-spent.”

                “That can’t be pleasant for you,” Roy said. “Storch was a monster.”

                Keystone smiled gently at him. “Being president means doing things that are difficult and working with people who have done terrible things. It won’t be easy, but working for a better, more peaceful future is worth it.”

                Roy winced at his words. “Well, have a good day, sir.” As he left, however, he considered what Keystone had said. Extending a hand to ones enemies wasn’t the only way Keystone could have done things. It wasn’t the way Olivier Armstrong would have done things. She would have taken a more straightforward approach, righteously purging the government of perpetrators. Even if she wasn’t wrong, it would have likely led to another Civil War. Storch, no doubt, would have been an abhorrent leader.

                What about Roy Mustang himself? He thought about the question as he walked. If he was to be honest, he would have been torn between his past and his vision. He would have largely maintained the status quo. Most people would have been mostly okay, but there were needs he would have failed to meet. Veteran affairs, on the other hand? That was something Roy knew. He’d do good in that role.

                Roy found Riza at their hotel room.

                “I lost,” he said after he entered.

                “I know,” Riza said. “It made the papers this morning. The late edition.”

                “Keystone offered me a job in his administration,” Roy said. “Secretary of Veteran Affairs.”

                “Take it,” Riza said.

                “But I need to resign from the military and follow you to Drachma!” Roy said. “I promised.”

                “I know you did, Roy,” Riza said. “But helping the veterans of his country is important, just like the peace delegation to Drachma is.”

                “I’ll wait for you,” Roy promised.

                “What if Madam Christmas gets a new girl who has better thighs than me?” Riza asked.

                “I’ll turn my gaze from her!” Roy swore.

                “Even if she wears a miniskirt?” Riza asked.

                “Hm...” Roy said, in a considering tone. “How short are we talking here?”

                “The shortest,” Riza said breathlessly.

                “Well, in that case,” Roy said before his face broke into a grin. “I’ll still wait for you.”

‘               “Well, in that case,” Riza conceded. “I suppose I can wait for you, too.”

                “Hey!” Roy said in mock protest.

                Elsewhere, Isaiah Keystone arrived at the location of Storch’s funeral, only to promptly wonder if he was in the wrong place. Certainly, there was a casket before him, waiting to be buried, but the only other people around were Isaiah’s two bodyguards, who waited a short distance away.

                Isaiah heard a noise behind him, and saw a figure wearing a bedsheet toga and a carnival mask. He supposed he must in the right place, after all, but he expected there to be more. No more arrived, however, other than a priest from Storch’s faith, who performed the appropriate religious rituals.

                “I’m Eric Dunst,” said the man in the carnival mask. He took it off, and Isaiah saw that tears ran messily down his face.

                “Isaiah Keystone,” said Isaiah.

                “You’re going to be our new president,” Eric said sullenly.

                “I am,” Isaiah said. “Please don’t be frightened by the prospect.”

                Eric looked like he was going to respond to that before he deflated. “Where is everybody?”

                Isaiah had a good idea as to why. Pictures of Storch’s corpse had been kept out of all but the trashiest of tabloids in the name of good taste, but the details had been widely circulated. It tracked with why Storch’s funeral had been set up so hastily – why he was being buried the very morning after he died. If he was to be remembered as an embarrassment, it seemed that nearly all of his supporters would prefer not to remember him at all. Isaiah counted this as a good thing; it meant that Storch wouldn’t become a martyr for the League’s cause.

                Isaiah hummed after he left the graveyard and headed back to Central Command, followed by his two bodyguards. There was so much work to do. He needed to talk to parliament about overturning the Partible Inheritance Act and passing work-place non-discrimination legislation. He needed to get brought up to speed on the confidential briefings for the upcoming Drachma peace delegation, and he would need to extend the olive branch to Aerugo and Creta. There was so much still left to do, and Isaiah thanked Ishvala for allowing him the opportunity to do it.


End file.
